


Mio Mélomanie

by SexusMihiCardi



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, BDSM, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Hand Jobs, Horror, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Masterbation, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24748864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexusMihiCardi/pseuds/SexusMihiCardi
Summary: A romantic thriller detailing the budding relationship between Raffaele Copia and Alessandro Emeritus, otherwise known as Papa Emeritus III.An anxiety ridden Cardinal Copia arrives in Mexico City to perform what he believes to be his final ritual, fearfully grappling with the very real possibility that it may not only mark the end of his tenure with the band, but his life as well.  Following his unexpected ascension to Papahood, he must quickly learn how to play the game, placing his trust in friends and loved ones both old and new if he wants to keep his position and his head; because something is coming for him, and if he isn’t ready he may very well follow their Dark Lord in plummeting from the pinnacle to the pit.
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III
Comments: 46
Kudos: 50





	1. What the Puck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mélomanie: Noun: an excessive and abnormal love and deep attraction to music and melody.
> 
> Greetings reader. Welcome to the popping of my own personal fanfic cherry! You read that right: this is my first ever piece of fan fiction and will eventually evolve into my first foray into writing smut! I'm a porn with plot kind of gal so this is the start of a journey. I am aware that this first chapter is a whopper, but it sets the stage. I hope you'll stick with it because they won't all be such a commitment and I've got loads of comedy and sexy times planned. As this is my first time I welcome, nay encourage any and all feedback! Speak to me! Now enjoy you crazy kids.

What the Cardinal wouldn’t give to go back just fifteen minutes ago, when the worst of his worries was whether or not the charley horse wreaking havoc on his left calf would go away by the time he took the stage. Instead he found himself hastily limping through the labyrinth of corridors within the _Palacio De Los Deportes_ ; crazy Jack Torrance barreling through the Overlook Hotel complete with blind, murderous intent; all he lacked was an axe and the capacity to rid himself of the trouble making entity he stalked once and for all.

His day had been fairly standard procedure up to that point. He’d been at the arena since early afternoon; feeling out the venue, overlooking final preparations, joking with the crew, arranging his dressing room— _rearranging_ his dressing room; unconditionally throwing himself at every basic, menial task he could think of to keep himself occupied enough not to dwell on the fact that this was it: _game over_. No front man had ever survived more than one full album cycle. 

He used the word survived ironically. The Cardinal didn’t actually believe the clergy had done away with the Emeritus brothers. He didn’t have any evidence to the contrary as none of them had been seen or heard from since the day he was promoted, but he knew deep down that their murders were all show; an elaborate PR stunt, one that earned him a fair share of disapproval from fans in his early days. No—he was convinced that the previous Papas were all enjoying retirement in the arms of buxom women, getting drunk on white sandy beaches or in grand Italian villas instead of putrefying in the glass boxes they carted around and exhibited in the ritual lobbies. 

Besides, the ministry wouldn’t deliberately perpetuate the stereotype that Satanists are all evil, blood-thirsty psychopaths. Hollywood did that for them.

His predecessor Emeritus the third was a fan favorite. No one held sway over their supporters quite like him.

Despite imagining Papa somewhere warm and sunny, doing keg stands surrounded by half naked supermodels, Copia squealed like a child when the _Metal Hammer UK Magazine_ props master tossed him an eerily lifelike replica of his decapitated head. His iron clad belief that the ministry weren’t all stone cold serial-killers slipped ever so briefly. If Papa Nihil weren’t also participating in the shoot he would have declined to pose, siting poor taste, but the old man gave him enough grief as it was so he swallowed his discomfort and cradled the bloody head as directed, fixing the camera ahead with a sinister stare.

As he predicted, the fans didn’t care for the implication. The consistent presence of flowers, notes, and tokens of mourning atop their effigies was proof-positive that the Papas’ absence left a void not so easily filled. As if Copia didn’t have enough stacked against him as an outsider within the clergy and the first non-Papal front man in many, many, _many_ _fathers;_ he resigned himself to work twice as hard to earn their support and affection.

It took time. He poured on the charm, played the fool, wiggled his ass, and joked and jested until slowly, ritual by ritual he saw signs of improvement. He worked tirelessly to paint himself a different portrait; one of not just the rock star, but a man you’d like to share a drink with or enjoy a little horizontal tango; not some villain plotting a coup and certainly not capable of chopping off anyone’s head, let alone posing with it like some cadaverous sports trophy.

Over the course of nearly two years he built the reputation he always dreamed of, not through blood, but sweat and tears. Sadly his anxious nature didn’t allow him to be satisfied by the payoff for long. Once he achieved a certain level of success Copia began to worry that it could all come crashing down at any moment. _From the Pinnacle to the Pit_ made real, one misstep and he would plummet right back to where he started; an awkward nobody in a claustrophobic office, smothered by mountains of mundane paperwork. If he allowed that mindset to linger too long he’d dissolve into a bundle of nerves for days on end.

To ward off that possibility he dove headfirst into becoming the best damn front man he could be and by all accounts he succeeded, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t reaching the end of his tether by their penultimate performance that December. They were in such high global demand that the ministry booked as many rituals as possible to close out _Prequelle_. Not one to complain, Copia was grateful for the opportunity to conduct them and spread their doctrine to previously untouchable metropolises, but he was only one man and the _constant_ non-stop grind of the machine was beginning to wear him down. He needed a break.

It was different for the Ghouls. They were not of this world and as such weren’t affected by mortal concerns like balanced nutrition and a decent sleep schedule. Copia came to think of them as little Energizer bunnies, they just _kept going and going and going_. Ghouls aren’t immune to burn out, but it requires twice as much alcohol and three times the sleepless nights before their bodies turned on them the way his did.

When it finally came the nearly three month hiatus did him all the good. Nestled between snow-capped Swedish mountain peaks lay the epicenter of their church, a sprawling medieval complex he called home. He was able to breathe again in his own humble chambers, among his possessions, tucked warm and cozy in his bed.

It was a strange homecoming after so long away. Following his prolonged absence the ministry halls felt coincidentally familiar yet foreign at the same time, but they hadn’t changed—he had.

People more or less left him be for which he was grateful. As Cardinal Copia _the front man_ he gladly accommodated curious fans interested in his role in the band; however, as Raffaele Copia _the man,_ similar such interactions within the ministry felt like pandering outside the context of the tour. 

He mostly kept to himself, vowing to make the most of this rare free time by catching up on much needed rest and relaxation, soaking up whatever peace and quiet he could find like a dry sponge. At the time he wouldn’t have thought too much rest and relaxation were possible, but in the weeks leading up to his final bow the Cardinal began to lose sleep. In the quiet nighttime hours he lay in bed wide awake, forced to reckon with a backlog of thoughts and fears he’d been avoiding for months. 

He’d already come to terms with the likelihood that Papa Nihil would never acknowledge his contributions to the ministry through the _Ghost_ project. The important thing was that Copia finally knew his worth. As front man he’d achieved far more than anyone gave him credit for.

But the tour was ending. Who was he without it? 

He was also embarrassed to admit that ghastly thoughts of the _supposedly_ deceased Papas began to haunt his dreams. Now when Emeritus the third flipped into those keg stands he imagined his head popped clean off, leaving a trail of gummy red blood as it rolled away calling, “ _See you soon Cardi!”_ and laughing like Pennywise the clown.

Copia drunk himself into a stupor on the plane ride from Sweden to Mexico City. He had nothing better to do. None of the ghouls chose to spend their break at the ministry base so his only travelling companion on the long flight was his on-again, off-again lover Madame Anxiety. Heavily inebriated he tried sleeping through it but Papa’s disembodied head was always waiting on the other side of his eyelids to serenade him with _Pro Memoria._ Copia arrived in Mexico City hungover, depleted, and on edge; the same sorry state he was in at the end of December.

He was loathe to roll out of his hotel bed the following morning. After two cups of strong black coffee he decided to migrate over to the arena early and find a distraction. His unexpected appearance threw the technical director into a tizzy. Copia assured them that he wasn’t there to rush anyone and promised to stay out of their way, keeping mum that he just didn’t want to be alone at that moment.

The meet-and-greet was exactly what he needed to lift him out of his gloom and restore his spirits. His fans always had a way of making him feel like all was right in the world even when interacting with him was an emotional roller coaster for them. He shared their highs and their lows; the joy he felt in their presence crash diving into a sense of genuine loss when they said goodbye and left him alone. But the sadness was always short lived, replaced by a fresh rush of giddy delight (like a kid at Christmas) when the next one arrived to greet him. He loved them all, he truly did.

“May I give you a hug before I go?”

“Please do! Come to me sweet girl!” He pulled his current partner to him, startling her with his enthusiasm. She trembled in his arms, barely pressing into his body. He leaned his right temple to her head and firmed up his grip until she relaxed and began to laugh. It was music to him. He needed that hug more than she did and it was with reluctance that he let her go again.

He swallowed the sadness when she bid him farewell and spun to face the other side of the room, clapping his hands together, eagerly anticipating the next fan who would come and wash it all away. His face fell when an assistant threw open the curtain instead.

“There are no more—” whispered Copia, not a question, but a realization; one that crushed him like a ton of bricks.

“No more Cardinal.”

There would never be any more. Copia heard the ruckus of ghouls in their dressing rooms as he returned to his own lonely room. Normally he liked to check in and sync up with the whole crew before a show, but not tonight. Clicking his door shut he took a seat in front of the mirror and drew a shaky breath.

This was it. He couldn’t ignore the reality anymore. After tonight no more meet-and-greets, no more hugs and adulation, no more sold out stadiums of people screaming his name: no more _Ghost_ , not for him.

“ _Pull yourself together Cardi_ —” he scolded, blinking away tears. The thirty minute call was due soon; it was time to get his head in the game. He downed the last of his bottled water and paced around the room, warming up his instrument with a series of lip trills, sirens, and scales recorded on his phone.

He’d been remiss in keeping his joints loose and limber over the break. He removed his gloves and coat, slid down his suspenders, and unbuttoned his shirt half way before diving foolhardily into his old preshow stretching routine; ill-advised as he abandoned his yoga practice shortly after returning to Sweden in favor of sleeping in. His trousers dug into the soft round pudge of his belly, forcing him to reluctantly admit that perhaps he overdid it on the carbs over break. To comfortably continue unrestricted he was forced to undo the button and slide the zipper down.

Folding up into downward dog he groaned, feeling the pull of the stretch work out his tight hamstrings. On his next exhale he pressed back, sinking further into the pose. He was just reaching his limit when the door burst violently open. With a strangled yell he tensed and pushed up quickly off the ground, tweaking his left calf muscle in the process; a white, hot flash of stabbing pain sent him crumbling to the floor.

“Cardinal, hello! Long time no see. How ya doin’ down there?” Swiss ghoul perched awkwardly in the door frame, not quite committing to entering the room despite nearly busting down the door.

“ _I’m in pain…thank you for asking,_ ” Copia gritted through clenched teeth, rubbing his calf aggressively in an effort to console the screaming nerve endings. “How can I help you?”

“ _Aha_ , well you see—I—so, it’s a funny story actually, ha, um—”

Copia rolled onto his side, quirking an eyebrow at the stammering ghoul. While he usually meant well, Swiss had a proclivity for making mischief and this nonsensical babbling was unknowingly setting Copia further on edge. The Cardinal examined him from head to toe; there was something off here he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“You know what?” said Swiss. “Yeah—never mind. Guess you had to have been there. Not important. Sorry to bother you…hey, you have a good show tonight! Break a—well, you know…” and without another word he backed out into the hall and closed the door.

Copia whimpered. Rolling back onto his spine and pulling his knees up to his chest, he grimaced as another throbbing wave of pain crashed over his lower leg. He closed his eyes and took several deep breathes, gently rocking from side-to-side to unclench the tense muscle. Once his heart rate evened out, he rolled himself back over and carefully pushed himself off the floor only to stumble back and catch his body on a chair when his door suddenly burst open a second time.

“ _Damnit—Swiss_!” Copia snapped. Once again the ghoul froze just inside the entrance, still as a deer caught in headlights. “Would you kindly look at the sign by the door? To the—no—yes to the left…see it? What does the sign say?”

“Cardinal Copia,” replied Swiss un-ironically.

“Correct,” said Copia. “So whose dressing room might this be?”

Swiss narrowed his eyes at the Cardinal. He took a step back and examined the sign a second time then leaned in to investigate the room itself, the Cardinal again, and back at the sign. Copia pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled.

“It’s not a trick question Swiss. Whose dressing room is this?”

Swiss stepped back over the threshold and pointed at the floor in a matter-of-fact manner. “This is Cardinal Copia’s dressing room.”

“Well done! And I am Cardinal Copia aren’t I Swiss?”

“Yes.” The ghoul grinned, quite pleased to be doing so well at this unexpected game of questions.

“Do I charge into your dressing room unannounced?” asked Copia, closing in on his point.

“You do not.”

“So why Swiss? Explain to me why you feel the need to barge into mine?”

Swiss’ self-satisfied smile turned on its head. Muttering a hasty, “—never mind—” he tried for another speedy exit when a large forearm abruptly shot out from the left of the doorframe and seized him by the back of the collar.

“Nooo you don’t!” warned Aether, forcibly propelling Swiss into the room properly.

Copia rubbed his temples as the rest of the ghouls stepped out of their hiding spots on either side of the door and began to file inside. Swiss was obviously reluctant to join them, but was too small to resist Aether’s firm grasp on the nape of his neck.

“Please, won’t you _all_ come in,” said the Cardinal sarcastically.

Rain caught his eye and silently gestured downward, discreetly indicating that his fly was still down. Copia blushed and rushed to zip himself up before anyone else noticed.

Aether released Swiss’ neck and prodded him forward to stand at the center of the room where he fiddled with the buttons on his coat and rocked on his heels like everything was hunky-dory. His bandmates took up various positions around the room and crossed their arms, waiting.

“Somebody better start talking,” prompted Copia, patience wearing thin.

“Better tell him Swiss,” encouraged Aether.

“Just get it over with buddy,” added Rain.

Swiss exhaled dramatically. Despite the mask, Copia could see the wheels turning in his head. “Okay. Okay…so…what happened was—I was—so this is a funny story, I promise you’re gonna’ laugh about it later—”

“ _Swiss!_ ” pressed Cirrus and Cumulus together.

“Get to the point,” Copia called over them.

Swiss pursed his lips in indignation. Before he had another chance to articulate himself, the lights cut out and the room was plunged into pitch-black darkness. Copia and the ghouls cast their eyes toward the light switch where the only thing to be gleaned was a set of thin-slit, glowing red eyes. Their owner conjured up a ball of vivid yellow flames next, engulfing his entire hand and projecting spooky, distorted shadows dancing over the walls around them.

Swiss stepped back, shrinking from the light. “Awww, c’mon Dew. Now, man…why you gotta’ do me like that? I was gonna’ tell him!”

Dew said nothing as he pushed to the front of the other ghouls. Extending his torched hand, he backed Swiss up against the wall then turned to look at the Cardinal expectantly, waiting for him to catch up.

Copia stopped breathing when he saw it.

“ _Shit—”_ he whispered, feeling like a dunce for not noticing before. “Oh shit—Swiss… _you didn’t?_ ”

“Okay—Here’s the deal…see, I had a real bad itch—”

Dew hissed, shutting down the obvious fabrication.

Mountain spoke up from elsewhere in the dark room. “He was showing off. There are sisters of sin in the building.”

“Now…granted now, she goaded him into it,”—sweet Aether, ever the peacekeeper—“I heard her—said she’d never seen a proper ghoul before. It was entrapment really.”

“Thank you!” exclaimed Swiss, bowing in appreciation.

“Didn’t stop him though, did you big boy?” mocked Dew, shooting a little jet of flame at Aether like the guitar picks he occasionally lobbed at him during their pre- _Cirice_ guitar battles. The larger ghoul leapt back, swatting at it before it dissipated. 

Once Cirrus switched on the lights, Dew extinguished his hand and replaced his mask, glaring at Swiss and leaning against the wall. Sometime in the dark Copia sunk into the chair and leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring blankly ahead, mind racing to come up with a game plan.

As lesser demons every ghoul inherently possesses supernatural abilities tied to the element they were spawned under. Mountain had more than just a green thumb, rain manipulated water, and the ghoulettes could whip up a tornado if they pleased. 

The masks they wore weren’t just for show either. Etched inside were the necessary sigils required to maintain their human glamour while at the same time suppressing their ghoulish talents. It wouldn’t do for someone like Dew to lose focus during a ritual and reign down unholy hellfire on the crowd while in the throes of a flaming guitar solo.

What Dew revealed to him in the dark was that among the shadows cast by his flame, Swiss’ shadow was missing.

Swiss was unique. Like the Roman god of beginnings and transitions, he was a two-faced Janus; a shadow ghoul simultaneously existing in both this world _and_ the in-between. While Swiss and his shadow worked in tandem for the most part, they could also be of two minds. Without his mask to bind it to him, it was free to detach and slip away independently for its own purposes; be it whispering mischief into gullible ears, theft, and under the right circumstances even possession or manifesting its own physical form. The ghoul and his shadow were twins of a kind.

While its intentions weren’t always malicious, the wraith knew things, things no mortal man could know; things that had been and things yet to be; and depending on its mood it could either divulge or deny that information, stringing people along for its own amusement. It never could give a straight answer. With one foot in the past and the other in the future, it spoke in riddles, switching between past, present, and future tense. Any attempt to interpret it could drive a man mad. 

Copia took to calling it Puck after the capricious sprite orchestrating the chaos in William Shakespeare’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. For someone like the Cardinal, on a night like this when his anxiety ran rampant, having Puck on the loose was the worst possible scenario.

He buried his face in his hands, fuming, but struggling to keep a level head and recount the facts: for whatever reason Swiss had been persuaded to remove his mask, disrupting the glamour that gave him his human appearance and immobilizing his gifts. Taking advantage of the momentary break in the mystical glue that fused them together, Puck seized the opportunity to cut and run. Swiss could _absolutely not_ be seen without his shadow. Without it his body looked like a photoshop cut-out poorly pasted into real life: simply put, he didn’t look real. There was plenty to distract onstage, but someone would inevitably notice.

Copia lifted his head hopefully. “Aether, can—”

Aether shook his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry Cardinal. I already tried. I’m not able to sense its whereabouts.”

Like their shadow siblings, aether ghouls were unique in that their ghoulish abilities weren’t strictly elemental. They could absorb and redistribute energy, supernatural energy drawn from the same in-between place that Puck existed. Through such manipulation Aether could amplify or temporarily wield the other ghouls’ gifts, influence the mind, communicate without words, sense things unseen, bend reality, even re-order time as one of his kind was famously known to achieve. His power could be limitless if he applied himself, but he chose not to. His passive, submissive manner was the direct result of being frightened of his own potential.

He was the only ghoul who preferred to wear his mask at all times. No one knew exactly why, but there were rumors that somewhere in his past the gentle giant had inadvertently caused a great deal of harm and resolved never to do so again.

“Can you try again Aether? Please?” prodded Copia gently. “Try to locate it again.”

Again, Aether shook his head, this time physically retreating from the request. “I’m afraid I—” A crackling voice through the overhead speaker cut him off.

_“Ladies and gentleghouls, this is your thirty minute call. Thirty minutes to the top of the show. That’s thirty minutes to the top of the show. Thank you.”_

Copia leapt from his seat as though he’d been scalded with a hot iron, hissing when his calf seized in opposition to the sudden, violent action.

“ _Alright!_ New plan! Split up. Swiss, you stay put. Search high and low. Leave no stone unturned. Find it fast so we can put Humpty Dumpty here back together again. Yes? Meet back here at the ten minute call.”

“What if we haven’t fou—” began Cumulus.

“Not an option. Quick now!”

His fearless lionesses led the hunt, yanking open the door and bounding down the right corridor; Mountain took the left; Aether and Rain, the hall directly ahead. The Cardinal shook his head as Dew leisurely strolled from the room, hands stuffed in his pockets as if he were enjoying a lakeside stroll on a sunny, spring afternoon, lazily weighing his options before shrugging his shoulders and nonchalantly wandering left. 

Copia took a deep breath and braced himself for a painful first step toward the door. He grunted, hopping back off his foot when his calf spasmed, reluctant to cooperate. Without prompting, Swiss took hold of his left elbow and supported him as far as the door.

“You can barely walk. Let me go instead,” he offered. His heart was only partially in the right place. While he genuinely felt bad for having accidentally caused the injury, he also wasn’t looking forward to being cooped up alone while everyone else got in on the excitement.

Copia brushed him off with a stern, “I’m fine.” He wished he believed it.

“I can help. I can support you!” Swiss was banking on the Cardinal’s nervous expression. In his current condition the long corridor may as well have been Mount Everest.

“You _cannot_ be seen.” Copia jabbed a finger into the center of Swiss’ chest. None of the other ghouls were susceptible to flights of fancy quite like he was. Copia didn’t need him thinking he needed to be a hero right now. 

When Swiss released his elbow and disappointedly dropped his eyes to the floor, Copia felt a pang of guilt. He knew Swiss didn’t always think clearly when he and Puck were separated; he was only one half of a whole after all. Patting the ghoul’s masked cheek re-assuredly, he added in a softer tone, “I don’t blame you Swissy. You’re a good ghoul. Now, hold tight and close the door behind me.”

Apart from the slow-moving Cardinal, the bandmates tore through the maze backstage at a breakneck sprint, searching every nook and cranny for Swiss’ shadow. They pulled furniture away from walls; peeked into trash cans, sinks, toilet stalls, toilets _bowls_ , and custodial closets; inspected the shadow of every wary passerby for horns and a tail. 

Straight from a Saturday morning cartoon, they sped down long corridors lined with doors like the Scooby gang in a life-or-death chase, one disappearing into one room while another took the room across the hall, then meeting in the middle before swapping rooms for a second pass. It would have been comical if not for the gravity of their predicament.

_“Fifteen minutes folks. This is your fifteen minute call. Fifteen minutes to the top of the show. Thank you.”_

Copia swore under his breath in his native Italian, hobbling quick as he was able down an unfamiliar hall. Not only had fifteen minutes flown by without any sign of Puck, but despite having spent the entire day exploring the arena he still managed to get himself lost. There were no posters on the walls, no markers to help him get his bearings. The concrete corridors all looked the same. 

If there was a silver lining at that moment it was that the ache in his leg was beginning to dwindle. Regardless, he stuck close to the wall, running a hand over the oversized brick for extra support. Given the way his evening was going there was no point in pushing his luck, not this close to curtain. He would bear his full weight when he was certain the death rattle of the pulled muscle had passed for good.

Turning down yet another identical hall, he pressed on with a frustrated grunt, unnerved by the loud _CLICK-CLICK-CLICK_ of his own solitary footsteps echoing off the walls. Goosebumps sprouted on his forearms when the fluorescent lights above began to flicker ominously; paired with the fact that he couldn’t recall the last time he passed another human-being, the Cardinal suddenly felt overwhelmingly vulnerable and isolated, like he’d stepped into a horror movie. He admonished himself for the comparison, but no sooner did the thought enter his brain than a chorus of bloodcurdling female shrieking ring out from elsewhere in the building. 

He jerked his head around, slapping a hand to his chest to keep his heart from bailing on him. The heavy silence that followed was broken seconds later by the high-pitched squeaking of rusty wheels (not unlike the effect they used in the tricycle bit onstage). He swung back around to find a custodial worker pushing a janitorial cart into view, parking it in the middle of the hall. Copia sighed in relief.

“Pardon me?”—he cleared his throat—“Ahem…I beg your pardon, Sir—Señor? I’m afraid I’m a little bit lost.”

On the short and stocky side, the custodian looked every bit the clichéd handyman; balding, with a sweat stained undershirt peeking out from a blue, grease-stained Michael Myers-esque jumpsuit, tool belt, worn yellow work boots, and a bushy black mustache protruding from under a bulbous nose. He plucked a paint splattered metal step ladder from his cart and positioned it beneath one of the broken light fixtures. Snapping it open, he spared the Cardinal a smile and a nod before scaling the steps to begin removing the plastic covering. Copia approached and tried again.

“Señor? Pardon…do you speak English?”

“Si,” replied the man, still focused on his task rather than the Cardinal. The plastic case popped free; it slipped through his fingers and crashed to the floor, landing with a resounding _THWACK_.

“G-good” said Copia, laughing nervously, “—r-relieving I mean—my español is not so good. Your impressive venue has me turned around. Do you know the way back to the backstage area from here?”

“Si.” The man tugged a faulty tube from its fuse, dipping the already low-lit hall down to an even paltrier level. Returning to ground level, he unceremoniously tossed the dead bulb into the trash bin on his cart and retrieved a new one.

Copia paused, waiting for him to continue with the requested directions, but he silently went about his business, tucking the new tube under his arm and climbing back up the ladder. Perhaps there was still a language barrier and he was failing to make himself clear.

“Do you think you can point me in the right direction?” Copia illustrated with his hands, gesturing behind him with a wagging finger to represent himself navigating various twists and turns.

“Si!” Polishing the replacement tube with a filthy rag produced from his tool belt, the custodian punctuated his response with a Cheshire grin, light glinting off a single, shiny gold-capped tooth.

Copia bit the inside of his cheek, temper flaring. Either this man was messing with him or he clearly didn’t understand English like he claimed. The Cardinal knew he had an accent, but never had issues being understood by English speakers before. This fruitless back-and-forth was wasting time he didn’t have to spare and he began to imagine he’d missed the ten minute call. 

He searched the ceiling. _Are there even overhead speakers wired up this far out?_ He couldn’t see any.

In addition to wrapping up this shadow business, he had to finish dressing and mentally recover from the whole debacle before taking the stage. His customary pre-show ritual was already out of the question; there was no time. Even a remote possibility that his final turn on stage might be in jeopardy tore apart his insides. He cracked his neck to relieve some of the pressure and tried as hard as he could to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

“Tell me how to get back,” he said in a low, clear, even tone. “ _Per favore_.” he added reluctantly, accidentally slipping into familiar Italian instead of Spanish like he intended.

“Why you want to go back?”

Copia cocked his head, surprised by this sudden show of articulation and understanding. He almost didn’t register that the man had spoken English to him.

“I—what?” he said.

“Why you want to go back?” the man reiterated, lifting the new tube to insert into the fixture. “Hm? What is back? Look ahead _amigo_. Big things coming.”

The tube snapped into place; like a solitary, burnt out bulb responsible for disabling an entire strand of Christmas lights, replacing that one tube jolted the entire hallway miraculously back to life. The rest of the malfunctioning fixtures exploded with bright light, temporarily blinding the Cardinal. He flung his head to the side and rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly to bring the world back into focus. That’s when he saw it.

A long, thin reptilian tail uncurled from the custodian’s plump shadow, whipping back and forth across the wall with feline grace. Wiping newly clawed fingers down his overalls, he flashed Copia an arrogant grin of razor-sharp teeth and descended the ladder. 

_Bingo._

Copia seized it from the bottom step and chucked it at the wall. Its human camouflage jolted loose on impact, the skin wobbling like Jello before breaking apart and sliding down to reveal the puppeteer beneath: Puck; a mirror image of Swiss ghoul, only cut from a black hole with stars for eyes and long fangs of polished silver.

“Good evening Cardinal Copia,” said Puck, its true voice a grinding, disjointed combination of several, all dripping with mirth.

Copia snatched a handful of the smoky, indescribable substance it was made of and began dragging it back the way he came. “You’re a little shit, you know this?”

Had he not been so pre-occupied with beating the clock, he would have found just how easily Puck gave itself up worrisome. Apart from the minor stumble of being yanked off the ladder, it kept pace with him of its own free will.

“We knows, we knows,” it said, undeniably smug. “What choice did we have? We saw our last chance to say farewells in the fleshy terms and could not resists. We will miss our friend the Cardinal.”

Copia rolled his eyes. Pins and needles pricked at the naked fingers he twisted into the shadowy substance; it came with the territory of making direct physical contact with something not meant to exist on this plane. For some it manifested as a sudden chill down the spine, burning ears, a tickled nose, or the deep, unpleasant sting of circulation rushing back to a limb asleep for too long.

“Going somewhere are you?” he said sarcastically. He stopped at the end of the hall, unsure which turn to take.

“ _Pfft_ …you know very well we can never goes far Cardinal, never here. Go left.”

“Thank you…” muttered Copia. Left they went. “And don’t be so dramatic Puck. I’m retiring, not moving to Antarctica. You and your brother will see me at the ministry when the tour ends.” His stomach clenched, reminded that this _was_ the tour’s end.

This prompted a cynical sort of chortle from the shadow that sounded more like regurgitation. “Can we Cardinal? Yes…we suppose so—that is if they goes with clear glass like they did befores.”

Copia faltered, shooting Puck a skeptical side-eye. “What are you talking about?”

“Just musing Cardinal. You take the next rights.” They did.

“That’s not funny,” grumbled Copia. A bead of sweat dipped into his eye. He shook his head to toss it off as well as the sudden spike in his anxiety level. They were running out of time, he still had no idea where they were in relation to his dressing room, and Puck’s cryptic banter didn’t settle well with him. It pooled in his belly and hardened like stone.

“The Cardinal said he is retires. What happens when a front man retires?”

“I never took you for gullible Puck. The ministry would never allow…let alone orchestrate…they couldn’t—the Papas aren’t dead. End of story.”

“Maybe they lives—maybe they _dead_.” it countered in a sing-song way. “Just in cases, we could not pass on an opportunity to bid the Cardinal bye-byes. He gave us a name. For millennia, no one else cares to give Puck a name. We are bereft in fact”—it began making an obnoxious, overly-dramatic sniffling sound—“stricken by the knowing that this is the very last time Puck speaks to the one, the infamous Cardinal Copia.”

Copia skidded to a halt, stopping dead in his tracks and seizing what would have been the creature’s neck with both hands, slamming it up against the wall. “No more riddles! _What do you mean by that?_ ”

“We speak plain Cardinal!”

“Speak. Plainer. What are you talking about?” He was certain it couldn’t feel pain and therefore had no qualms shaking it within an inch of a mortal life.

“Oh Cardinal, we not mean to offend—”

“ _You’re_ not going anywhere so where am _I_ going that we need say goodbye?”

“On! On Cardinal!”

“Stop saying Cardinal like that!” Copia was not a violent man, but his self-control hung by a thread. Knowing its penchant for pushing buttons and toying with mortal emotions, he could have kicked himself for allowing Puck to burrow under his skin like this; regardless, it strummed him like a guitar, striking all the dissonant chords and playing on fears that plagued his dreams for many months now.

“But we like to. We will no longer be able to use it when he flies in a few chimes’ times.”

“Stop it! Stop speaking about me like I’m—like—look, I’m not going _anywhere_!”

“But _you are_ Cardinal!” Despite the manhandling, it couldn’t contain its glee. Its starry eyes virtually twinkled, tail whipping excitedly behind it. “You are! Oh, the places you will goes. But look ahead. What is back? Look ahead! Do not be sad to goes.”

“Listen here _you little—_ ”

Rapidly approaching footsteps interrupted his interrogation. Rounding the corner at the far end of the hall were Mountain, Rain, Aether, Dew, Cumulus, and Cirrus, all sausaged awkwardly together. They shuffled forward in a tight line, shoulder-to-shoulder and wall-to-wall; one large mass of ghoul filling the narrow hall with their bodies as snug as the Cardinal’s thighs in his trousers.

“ _Imperator alert! Imperator alert!_ ” They whispered (apart from Aether who clapped a hand over his mouth when panic prompted him to speak much louder than the others). Gesturing aggressively, hands low at their sides, they warned Copia to move along _and_ _fast_. They weren’t being whimsical, they were executing a deliberate defensive maneuver straight from the history books; like Roman legionnaires they came together to form a single unit, blocking the passage and cutting off Sister Imperator’s view of Copia and Puck.

In an unexpected reversal, when Copia froze, Puck grabbed him by the wrist and pulled them away in the opposite direction. The Cardinal was too stunned to question it. He had no clue where they were headed, but it was away from Sister so he allowed himself to be led. When they arrived at his dressing room door it took him a moment to process that they’d returned at last.

“Sneaky Sister comes,” said Puck, cracking the door open. “Before we join our brother we want the Cardinal to knows that soon, when the _other_ comes, we will fondly recalls the time before, even when the Cardinal shoves us into walls. We do not mourn him because he never leaves, not really. The transitions of the powers will be scary and quickly, but do not be feared. Beyond every farewell lies another hello.” It extended its clawed black hand, flashing him a sparkly grin. “So…farewell _Cardinal_ Copia—hello P—”

Puck vanished instantly, the percussive “P” of its final word mocking Copia by hanging unfinished in the air.

“No, no, no— _wait_ —Hello who? Puck? _Puck! Hello who Puck!_ ”

The door swung the rest of the way open, revealing Swiss readjusting the mask over his face. Noticing Copia, he skipped forward and stopped, presenting an extended leg over which he bent and gestured proudly at the reattached shadow now stretching out from under his flexed foot over the floor.

“Behold!”

Copia liked Swiss; he also wanted to punch Swiss, square in the face, _extremely—fucking—hard._

“ _Uh oh..._ ” Swiss murmured, oddly not referring to the Cardinal’s homicidal change of expression or the way his fingers reached for his neck. “Smells like Imperator.” Oblivious, he pulled Copia into the room with him and shut the door.

“ _Phew_ —Am I glad that’s over!” he said. “Pulled it off by the hair on our chiny-chin-chins. You hear that screaming? How much you wanna’ bet Dew found the sisters’ dressing room? Hey, look at you! Your leg is looking be—”

“ _Bring Puck back_.”

“Say what now?” Swiss did a double take. “I could have sworn you just said—”

“You heard me!” Copia’s heart rate doubled, his body trembled, and beads of sweat formed on his upper lip, saturating his mustache. He recognized the signs and urgently needed Swiss to comply immediately if he was to avoid the meltdown threatening to overtake him. “We were in the middle of an important conversation that needs finishing. Take off the mask _right now_.”

“ _Ummm_ , I’m confused. Did I not—did you not—did we not _just_ go through—”

“ _Right now Swiss!_ ”

“But I just bound him and—”

“Do you want a trophy! Bring it back!”

“Hey, man—”

“Give it to me. _Give me answers!_ ” Copia snapped, lunging at the ghoul to rip away the mask. Swiss sidestepped him and ran to the other side of the room, hands out defensively before him. 

“ _Whoa_ …hold your horses! What are you—” Copia sprung after him. Swiss ducked away, leading them in a game of cat-and-mouse all around the dressing room; leaping over couches and chairs; throwing cushions, hair brushes, toiletries, and water bottles to drive him back.

Swiss snapped the Cardinal’s suspenders when he got a little too close, using the momentary shock to gain some ground. Copia took advantage of Swiss’ dress coat, snatching his coattails and yanking him close enough to graze the mask with his fingers, tilting it askew. Using his ghoulish speed, Swiss righted the mask and twisted around Copia’s back, trapping him in a headlock.

“Don’t make me do this man!” he implored, avoiding the Cardinal’s attempt to trip him up.

Copia was helpless in the throes of a full blown panic attack and couldn’t be reasoned with. He clawed at the arm around his neck, howling his frustration. “ _I need to know!_ ”

“Oh man…okay, I see…he said something and you took the bait…you know better than to listen to him! My man sucks!”

“ _I need to know! I need to know_!” Copia grunted the demented mantra over and over.

“You _need_ to calm down. C’mon, count down with me. Ten…nine…eight—”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

“—you’re upset and I forgive you. Eight…seven…six—”

“What the devil is going on here!”

Sister Imperator finally arrived. She froze in the doorframe, gobsmacked by the scene that greeted her. Their pseudo-wrestling match instantly downgraded to a round of hot potato with Copia unknowingly filling in for the potato. Swiss not only released him, but shoved him away so hard that Copia nearly tripped and fell. Recovering from this assault, Copia ran his hands up through his wild hair and stood to attention, shaking with effort to calm down and keep his hands to himself.

Imperator stormed into the room, glaring at them suspiciously. The other ghouls leaned around the doorframe to spectate, stacked head over head like a demonic totem pole. 

“ _Well?_ ” she demanded.

“Okay—so this is a funny story, promise,” began Swiss. “—see, what happened was, my slippery little shad—”

“ _AHA—_ ” Copia shot back over to Swiss’ side and clapped an arm around his shoulder with the machismo of a college jock. “This guy! This crazy ghoul right here— _muah!_ ” He kissed his fingertips and patted the bewildered ghoul on the head, squeezing his shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Just a little roughhousing Sister.”

“Yup!” chimed Swiss, landing a quick punch on the Cardinal’s right pec hard enough to make him wince.

“Y-yes! A little pre-show ritual me do, uh, _we_ do…me and…me and my ghouls here.” Copia held out a hand, signaling to the others in the hallway, desperate eyes pleading for some assistance.

The ghouls clumsily hummed in agreement.

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“We do do that.”

“I always win.”

“Like hell you do.”

“I like it rough!” Aether hid his face, mortified when they all paused and looked at him. “ _The h-housing_! The r-rough…the roughhousing…”

“Gets the blood pumping you know? Good for the old ticker.” added Copia, drumming his chest. His _ticker_ was operating at peak performance just then, pounding on his ribcage like a chestburster from the _Alien_ franchise.

“Cutting it a bit close aren’t you Cardinal?” She checked her wristwatch with a scowl. “There’s only five minutes to the top of the show and you aren’t even fully dressed.”

“Five minutes you say?” Copia sustained his smile, but felt all the blood drain from his face. “I am of course aware of this.”

“And you…”—her scrutinizing gaze fell on Swiss—“shouldn’t you be with the others?”

“Ma’am, _yes ma’am!_ ” Swiss saluted like an army private and shrugged his shoulder free, marching quickly to the door before anything else bizarre could happen. Copia flinched when the latch clicked shut behind him.

 _“Ghouls_ ,” mumbled Sister Imperator. Appraising the Cardinal, she threw her hands up in defeat. “And _you_ …look at the state of _you_.”

Copia dipped down, grimacing at his reflection in the mirrors above the dressing room counter. He was a mess, and not the hot kind. His tussle with Swiss left him red-faced and sweaty; the black paint on his upper lip streaked past his mustache over his cheek, giving him the appearance of a macabre clown; his shirt came untucked, a suspender hung limp from the front of his trousers, and his carefully kept hair was tousled beyond simply patting back into place.

“Yes. I see now…we got a little, eh, carried away.” He mumbled, hastily tucking his shirt back in and re-attaching the loose suspender, pulling it up over his shoulder. Once his shirt was buttoned he licked his thumb and furiously rubbed at the excess make-up, unintentionally spreading it further.

“Stop that…you’re making it worse,” scolded Imperator.

He dropped his hand. Theirs was a complicated relationship. With Imperator he never knew if he was going to get the temperate, caring Henry Jekyll or the severe, masochistic Edward Hyde; right now she was a total blank. 

Plucking a make-up removal wipe from his kit, she directed him to hold still and guided his chin down so she could begin blotting away the smudge. 

“I—you really don’t-don’t have to—”

“Nonsense.” she chided, silencing him.

Copia swallowed, nervously tapping his toe on the floor. He cast his eyes to the side, to the ceiling, anywhere but at her face which was closer than it had ever been. This was uncharacteristically intimate behavior for her. Once the blemish was dealt with, she grabbed a thin makeup brush from an assortment on the counter and dipped it in the black paint.

“How are you feeling?” she casually inquired after a moment.

“H-hmmm?” he couldn’t answer her even if he wanted to; not while she touched up the makeup on his upper lip. Any attempt to speak now would be as efficient as answering the dentist while their fingers probed in your mouth. She lowered the brush and raised an eyebrow.

“Fine-ne,” his voice cracked. “ _(cough)_ …good. _Ready to go_!” He hoped the forced enthusiasm wasn’t too obvious.

“No, no, no—” she rolled her eyes in annoyance. Setting the brush down, she retrieved his matching dress coat from the chair he’d draped it over earlier.

“Here—a-allow me Sister.” She swatted his hand away and held the coat open, gesturing for him to turn around.

“I mean _how are you feeling?_ ” she asked more pointedly, guiding the skinny sleeves up over his arms. “You made it. Your final ritual. You must feel conflicted.”

Copia chanced a glance at her reflection in the mirror to their left, watching her grapple with some kind of poorly veiled emotion behind his back. She was the one who looked conflicted. Was he? No one had ever really asked him that. She tugged on his shoulder, facing him forward so she could begin snapping the front closures.

“Conflicted? No.” he fibbed. “Grateful, yes.”

“Of course you are,” she actually grinned. She evened out his collar, brushed the shoulders flat, and pressed out the wrinkles over his chest, resting her hands there for a moment. She had to have felt his heart pounding.

“Sit.”

He’d been conditioned to obey. She stood behind him with a large bristle brush and set to work getting his hair under control. “You’re a sensitive man Cardinal,” she mused. “So many come to us already steely hearted and self-centered beyond rescue, but not you. You’re a _giver_. A breath of fresh air.”

“I—er…thank you?” _Please Lucifer no, is she hitting on me_? That unlikely prospect blew past both the end of the tour _and_ his own impending, potential murder _combined_ as the most horrifying outcome to this entire disastrous evening. However dysfunctional their relationship, Sister Imperator was like a mother to him.

“The Emeritus’ never really appreciated their position, but you, you understand the value don’t you?” she continued. “None of this is a game to you.”

He dismissed the idea that she was being anything other than friendly and quietly reflected on her words.

“The _Ghost_ project has been the highlight of my life,” he whispered sincerely, the heartbreak for inevitably having to leave it all behind slipping past the false confidence he presented.

The brush on his head went still. She locked eyes with him in the mirror.

“Any regrets?” she asked.

Regrets? His heart skipped a beat. Was this his final confession?

“None.” he answered.

_“Alrighty then folks! Places please! This is your places call. Ghouls to the stage. Cardinal on stand-by. Once again, this is your places call.”_

Sister Imperator left him to take her seat, abruptly leaving the Cardinal alone with his thoughts. It was time to face the music. Who did he want to be now, at the end of it all? Would he cower in his dressing room or rise to the occasion and go out with a bang?

_“Ghouls are in position. Once again, stand-by Cardinal Copia. Alright ladies and gentlemen, let’s do this one last time. In times of turmoil babies!”_

Copia rose from his chair and slipped on his gloves, completing his armor. In times like these.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The use of Raffaele and Alessandro as Copia and Papa III's first names are not my invention. Those names originated with ArchangeloLucifer, the author of some of my favorite Ghost fictions on this site. They have graciously allowed me to use them in my piece as well as a few other names further down the line that I'll note then. Check out their work, particularly What's This? A Ghost Story and its sequel Searching Four. You won't regret it.
> 
> *Most of the current tags are for further down the line. I included them now in the event that for whatever reason you know they might put you off later and you'd rather not get invested. They will be updated along the way.


	2. The Finish Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final ritual begins, running the Cardinal through an emotional gamut wherein he tastes the highest highs and lowest lows. A brief encounter with Papa Nihil backstage forces him to reflect on what touring has meant to him and come to grips with all he has to lose.

The crowded arena throbbed with unchecked energy, air thick with tangible anticipation, excitement, and desire. Ask any one of the thousands of spectators assembled there and regardless of age, gender, or point of origin they would all agree: the Cardinal asserted some kind of alluring, mysterious control over them all.

Ask the man himself and he would claim it was the other way around.

Slipping onstage in the black cover of _Ashes_ Copia rushed to the faux stone platform, planting his back flush against it, brandishing the little microphone like a makeshift billy club. He slid his body along the wall stopping just short of the corner, looking like a secret agent with a pistol. Not that he could see well in the dark, but he reasoned if a ghoul were going to ambush him with a syringe they’d have a harder time sneaking up on him from the front and he wasn’t going down without a fight.

He waited until the last possible moment to turn the corner and jog into the light, feeling instantly back at ease out in the open. The crowd received him with open arms. Planting his right foot on a speaker, he leaned into their embrace, anxiety and fear melting away. That was their power. Their colossal energy made no room for doubt, forcing him to own the stage. Copia felt more seen, more loved by a group of strangers than any one person made him feel his entire life; so much so that even the fear of death couldn’t rob him of the high.

They were with him.

Unfortunately the affects of their magic only seemed to extend so far as he could see them. In the cut to black following the _Rats_ outro he once again buckled under the debilitating influence of his own inescapable paranoia. He shot his arms out in the darkness backstage, making broad sweeps through the air around him like a tai chi master, creating a safe perimeter for himself until the lights came back up. He leapt back when his hand collided with a body, the first electric strum of _Absolution_ drowning out both his and his presumed attacker’s shouts of surprise.

“ _Ouch_ —CC, _steady_ …it’s me—” Despite weighing in at nearly half his size, his assistant Orla did her best to stabilize him.

Responsible for anticipating any number of mid-ritual needs, she was always ready and waiting to meet him just out of view with a stuffed fanny pack full of essentials. Equipped with everything from Aspirin to hairspray and even first aid, Orla could reach inside the little pouch like Mary Poppins’ bottomless carpetbag and miraculously produce anything he needed in a bind.

Copia stared dumbly at her outstretched palm. After a moment’s hesitation she reached forward, stealing the microphone from his clutches, replacing it with an open bottle of water. Tucking the mic under her arm she proceeded to dab the sweat from his brow with a dry cloth.

“Alright there?” she whispered, concerned. With such a small window between songs they’d rehearsed and executed these transitions like clockwork. The Cardinal usually tossed her the microphone before she even reached him and greedily drank from the bottle he traded it for. Now he appeared to be looking at her without really seeing her.

“Drink up,” she prodded when he didn’t answer, tapping him softly on the temple with the wadded up cloth in a bid to snap him out of what looked like the twilight zone.

Blinking rapidly, Copia scrunched his nose in silent apology and acknowledged the water with a grateful nod. His anxiety leeched all the moisture from his mouth leaving it bone dry. Careful not to smudge his recently painted upper lip he rested the rim of the bottle on the lower and tilted it back. A single unprovoked word shot to mind from out of nowhere, that was all it took for him to snap his lips shut before the liquid could slip into his mouth.

 _Poison_.

Orla had been with him for the bulk of the tour where she’d been nothing but a consummate professional and all around genuinely kind young person; surely she was trustworthy?

A spike in their popularity following _Rats on the Road_ led to an avalanche of applicants for positions with the upcoming tour. Swamped with rehearsals and planning Copia made a rookie mistake in delegating the selection of his personal assistant to someone else. The result was catastrophic. Between his two heads, the man in charge of hiring clearly wasn’t thinking with the one on his shoulders. For two miserable weeks the Cardinal was stuck with an admittedly gorgeous but brainless bimbo who made it crystal clear at every turn that she was more so eager to _assist_ him in bed than backstage. He had a lot to prove and didn’t need that kind of distraction.

He handpicked Orla as replacement specifically for her youthful naiveté and honest work ethic. Admittedly he also saw a little of himself in her. Like him, Orla never knew her parents and was raised a ward of the church. Once she came of age she chose a soul-searching sabbatical over remaining at her local Irish parish and entering the clergy as a sister right away; brave in his opinion, not that anyone other than another orphan would think so. Leaving behind all you’ve ever known to figure out who you are without it? Copia wasn’t strong enough to do that at her age.

He could tell she was grateful to be there. She flitted about behind-the-scenes like a curious little pixie; meek, inquisitive, and eager to learn anything anyone took the time to teach her, no matter the subject. At just over eighteen years old her petite frame and agreeable demeanor presented much younger. For that reason Copia harbored a protective streak for his young assistant. He was all too familiar with the tell-tale signs of an outsider’s deep desire for acceptance and didn’t want her taken advantage of. He took her under his wing and without a paternal figure in her life she gravitated toward him in return. They worked well together.

Yes—he trusted her, but where had this bottle come from? Where was the lid? Did she break the seal herself? There was no way of knowing whether or not it had been tampered with. His rational subconscious hollered that he was being ridiculous but was unheeded, drowned out by the dreadful screaming of a hundred other fears. He lowered the bottle and held it at length as though it were a venomous serpent that might strike out and poison him anyway.

The flash bombs at the top of _Absolution_ exploded with a loud _POP_. They should have come as no surprise; apart from a handful of misfires they consistently went off at the same time every ritual. The skittish Cardinal’s heart shot into his throat. His hand clenched reflexively, crushing the flimsy plastic bottle, shooting a heavy gush of water directly into Orla’s face. He dropped it in shock as she stumbled back, holding the microphone safely away, blinking runny mascara out of her eyes.

“ _Oh Orla_ , I—”

She slapped his hovering hands away. “Watch your g-gloves!” she sputtered, burying her drenched face in the sweaty rag. She blindly pressed the microphone into his chest and shoved him in the direction of the central staircase. “Guwon…you’re u-up!”

Copia stumbled up the steps, catching himself just in time to strut into public view and begin the song. The crowd cast their spell once more, erasing his mortification, rescuing him from the discombobulating haze of worry, obliterating every other thought than the here-and-now.

For nearly four years their Mexican fans were left high and dry without a formal ritual to attend. For nearly four years they stewed and craved. The band hadn’t visited the country since the _Meliora_ cycle in 2016 and it showed. Finally given an outlet to release all that pent up devotion they held nothing back. The Cardinal was obviously biased in thinking _Ghost_ fans were among the most loyal and enthusiastic in the world; even by those standards the Latin territories stood out as some of the most receptive and passionate he’d ever encountered. Thanks to their overwhelming response his confidence swelled with every measure.

By the second verse he hit his groove. Tapping into the performance headspace that staved off the worst of his apprehension, the physical symptoms ironically mirrored his now dormant anxiety; skin buzzing, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening all five senses to knife points, elevating them to hyper-aware levels; not unlike the thrill and terror of leaping into a free fall from out of an airplane, the only difference was that he no longer felt like he was helpless, thrashed about like a plastic bag in the wind (only a heavier version more susceptible to the laws of gravity that would eventually slam back down to earth and likely explode on impact): the fans would be his parachute.

Orla met him at the designated spot backstage during the guitar solo. There must have been a shirtless crew member around because she now modeled a mens size XXL tee so oversized it swallowed her juniors size XXS body, hem brushing just above her knees. It was at least dry unlike her short cropped bob. She tucked a damp piece of turquoise hair behind her ear to protect the Cardinal, a gesture he rendered pointless by sweeping her into his arms and spinning her around. He pressed a heavy kiss to her temple; they’d long been comfortable with such familial displays of affection.

“My poor, sweet, drowned baby Lala—” He swiped a gloved thumb over her cheek.

The closer they grew the stranger his title sounded in her mouth. Orla technically wasn’t a member of the clergy and as such wasn’t beholden to call him Cardinal. When he invited her to use his given name she took it a step further, concocting an alias she alone had permission to use, urging him to choose one for her in return. He didn’t understand why young people had to nickname everything but indulged her anyway. They became _CC_ and _Lala_. He had to admit, despite sounding like a pair of Teletubbies the terms of endearment did lend to a platonic intimacy that felt natural and nice.

“I’m so sorry. You’re okay?” he continued.

“Yes,” she said, perplexed by the manic shift in his temperament. “You?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Copia reluctantly passed on another offer of water, noting with equal parts embarrassment and amusement that it was presented in an uncrushable stainless steel bottle this time. Cheeky girl.

“Mint,” he requested instead, craning his neck slightly, opening his mouth like a baby bird.

“Coming up.”

Unzipping the fanny pack, Orla speedily rummaged through the pocket she called the _Candy Store_. There was no time for literal mints or gum. She pushed them aside in favor of spearmint Listerine breath strips. Peeling a thin strip from the tiny container she popped it on his outstretched tongue. Copia closed his mouth and agitated the strip on the roof of his mouth, dissolving it almost instantly. His spit glands responded to the cooling sensation of the mint leaving him with at least some semblance of having taken a drink.

“ _Ahhh_ …”—he smacked his lips together—“compliments to the chef!”

He ruffled her hair and rushed back up the staircase, taking a wide power stance at the top. 

The flash bombs wouldn’t catch him off guard this time. “Mexico… _are you with us?”_ With a casual snap of his fingers the charges exploded behind him. Copia didn’t even flinch—he was in control now. Whether or not that was true didn’t matter; the moment he believed it his brain released its stores of dopamine, washing his body in warmth and the illusion of power.

Instead of being terrified of the limited visibility brought on by the billowing fog at the end of the song he felt unstoppable, almost orgasmic. _Faith_ couldn’t come at a better time.

 _Dun. Dun. Dun._ Like the explosion, he snapped the notes into existence.

_Dun. Dun. Dun._

_Dun. Dun. Dun._ “C’mon!” he commanded, drawing a raucous cheer.

_Dun. Dun. Dun._

The beast within growled low as the song picked up. He gestured for the ghouls to give him their all and leapt off the bottom step to reengage the hungry crowd. 

He felt defiant; he felt reckless; Godly even. The fans worshipped him. He reveled in their praise. They were so much more than a parachute, they were an army: _his army_. History would not be repeated tonight. Cardinal Copia’s followers wouldn’t allow him to be dragged from the stage like his predecessor and he wanted the clergy to admit it. Inhibitions eroded by his own happy chemicals, he bought into the song hard. 

_Faith. Is. Mine._

He scanned the crowd for officials as he sang, seized with an uncharacteristic desire to spite them. He knew Imperator hadn’t come alone.

 _Try something,_ he mentally taunted. _I wish you would!_

Unable to locate an identifiable figure in the sea of faces he turned his attention to the cameras. The rituals weren’t only recorded for posterity sake but live-streamed to every parish in the church from Alaska to Brazil, Italy to Australia. Beyond the faithful gathered in Mexico City that night the Cardinal addressed thousands of believers across the globe. 

They gathered in sanctuaries and courtyards, watching on cinema quality projection screens, cheering as though they were jumbotrons at a major sporting event. Smaller congregations met in conference rooms and dormitories making due with televisions and laptops. For some it was midday, others midnight, but what they all had in common was witnessing a change in the Cardinal; something in his manner was markedly superior and possessive, even blasphemous which offended some and left others breathlessly aroused.

Copia’s arrogance mellowed in the long black out following the song. Engaging the audience in playful banter while the ghouls took a break, he was about to introduce _Mary on a Cross_ when their screams took a melodic turn that gave him pause. It took him a moment to realize they were actually singing, serenading him with a sincere albeit scattered and off-key rendition of _Happy Birthday_. Never mind that they were sadly mistaken; his birthday was almost exactly two months to the day later on *May 4th.

He knew what the likely mix-up was. March 3rd was the birthday of another important, nay _indispensable_ member of the clergy whose work was more of a behind the scenes and pulling strings nature. That man was a bit of a mystery and the audience in Mexico City likely confused them. Regardless, Copia humored them. He may have actually blushed as the considerate gesture warmed him to the bone. He allowed them to finish and assured them he’d pass on the message, amusedly thanking them on the birthday boy’s behalf.

That was that kind of thing that made their fans so damn perfect in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to show them the same affection, to assure them that he heard their praise and carried it in his heart.

His shot usually came during _Cirice_. The Third cleverly built in the perfect opportunity to be more demonstrative by selecting a solitary soul from the crowd, a vessel in which to pour his favor in a more intimate, memorable fashion. Copia looked forward to marking the exact moment his target understood they’d been chosen, seeing the spark of realization in their eyes when he singled them out and began to stalk toward them.

 _Is he looking at me,_ he imagined they must think. _No, he can’t be looking at me. Things like this don’t happen to me. I’m a nobody._

But it became impossible to deny as he maintained eye contact and knelt before them, begging for their hand, answering _Yes you. Only you_.

It thrilled them, it thrilled him, it thrilled everyone; everyone was happy, but sadly some venues didn’t allow for direct contact and the _Palacio De Los Deportes_ was one of them. The Cardinal was devastated when he found out that morning. He prized any opportunity to interact with his supporters more than words could say, but tonight above all, his last chance for that special one-on-one, he felt tragically robbed by a pointless gap in front of the stage.

Sadly such decisions weren’t up to him. His realm was more the creative. He laid down most of the choreography (minimal though it was), decided the set lists, and even insisted that any grievances on tour be brought to him. There were stage managers and underlings for those kinds of things but it was important for his peace of mind to be kept in the loop. 

Security however was not under his jurisdiction. The ministry retained the final say in that regard; when they departed, how they travelled, when they arrived, accommodations, personal appearances, meet-and-greets, backstage access―these were all ministry responsibilities and according to them a smaller gap between the audience and the stage posed a security risk.

This ritual would usher in the band’s longest hiatus in recent history. They were expecting the crowds to be enthusiastic, potentially violently so. On the other hand Copia was counting on giving an intimate farewell performance, one where he could make his mark on as many individuals as possible, really see the whites of their eyes. 

He mustered up the courage to call Sister Imperator on her personal line, a number he swore he would only utilize in case of an emergency. Just short of pleading he urged her to close the gap between the stage and the barrier. When she declined (rather haughtily, no doubt critical of his definition of the word “emergency”) he spent an hour of the afternoon pouting in his dressing room.

A small face peeked out from behind the front line of people leaning over the barricade, holding onto oversized sound-cancelling headphones with tiny hands to protect tiny ears. He found his mark. Copia was always troubled by the rumor that only young attractive females were chosen to be “Ciriced” as the fans dubbed it. It bothered him to see women pitted against one other for _bragging rights_. Did they not think he noticed the way they postured for his attention at the start of the second verse, flipping their hair and pulling their shirts down? He supposed that was the point, but it had the opposite affect on him.

His true weakness was the little ones with no ulterior motives. Depending on their age they may or may not have understood the lyrics, but it touched his heart to be trusted with their dainty hands. The thunder broke in their hearts the loudest. 

Copia knelt and signaled to the little girl’s guardian that he wanted her attention. The man he presumed was her father picked her up so she was level with him. Thankfully the people between them were considerate enough to lean out of the way. Realizing she was the object of his attention the child bashfully hid her face in the crook of her father’s neck, turning her head to smile at the Cardinal. His heart swelled when he noticed her clumsily mouthing the lyrics. When he blew her a kiss, she blew him one in return.

The perpetually spinning wheel of his emotions, cycling round and round since the start of the ritual, landed on sadness for the first time since he left his dressing room. Unfazed by the darkness at the end of the song he lingered on the top step, lip trembling, blinking back tears. If it was to end he almost wished it was there and then. Someone tugged on his coattails, adding a dash of fear back into the mix.

It was Orla who squeezed his hand and directed him down the stairs before the lights came back up. He waved her away, irrationally upset by another offer of water. His breath was coming shallow. He needed to get out of there. Panic was starting to overtake him again.

The plague doctors made him uneasy on the best of days and he had more than just them to avoid. Not that he and Papa Nihil weren’t on speaking terms; the man just made him anxious and he was positive Nihil wasn’t about to spare him a disapproving look, even if it was their last ritual. Despite granting the Cardinal clearance to go on tour, Copia never got the sense that it was given freely.

Narrowly avoiding the last plague doctor, the Cardinal was about to pass through the curtain into the bright lit hallway when he caught sight of Nihil in his peripheral.

The once proud Papa sunk deep into his wheelchair. He clutched his beloved saxophone in his left hand; in his right he fastened the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose, taking three long pulls from the tank. With each deep breath his feeble frame seemed to inflate, temporarily undoing the cruel work of time; his bowed spine uncurled and elongated; his concave chest grew broad and full; the mitre he wore, habitually leaning forward at an angle from weighing heavy on his head stood tall and imposing again. For a moment his silhouette struck Copia as one belonging to the formidable and intimidating leader Nihil once was, but only for a moment. 

Audibly exhaling, Nihil shrunk back into his chair, eyes slipping closed. He dropped the mask in his lap to cradle the instrument closer to him. He nestled the curve of the mouthpiece over his left shoulder and leaned his cheek to it. With trembling fingers he trailed whisper light touches up and down the cold brass. He was so gentle, took such care that from his vantage point it looked to the Cardinal as though Nihil were rocking some misshapen infant to sleep in his arms.

The synths at the top of _Miasma_ began. One of Nihil’s caretakers broke from their cluster and reached for his shoulder, presumably to shake him awake. They hadn’t been watching him as close as Copia and must have thought he’d suddenly fallen asleep as he was prone to do more often in his old age. For a stretch it was common to hear his gentle snoring minutes into black mass.

The caretaker’s hand stopped short when she realized his milky white eyes were already open. Everyone around him thought him vacant and aloof anymore, he knew this, but Nihil was well aware that his time had come. He waved her hand away and looked blankly ahead, unaware that Copia watched him from the shadows with furrowed brow. This was all wrong.

For the entire length of the long tour these familiar notes ignited a consistent fire under Nihil without fail; after all, they signaled that he would soon get to relive his glory-days on the stage. Night after night he hung on the edge of his seat in the wings just offstage; bouncing the saxophone on his knees with an infectious childlike enthusiasm; coffee stained teeth bared in a wide grin anticipating his entrance and meeting the rush of applause that would surely follow. 

Touring was difficult. The schedule was brutal and the conditions were hard on the body. True, as leader of their church Nihil wasn’t subject to traveling in the tight confines of the tour bus and was afforded the most comfortable accommodations of them all, but despite those material comforts it was no less taxing for a man of his years.

Sister Imperator made it transparently clear from the beginning that Nihil was staring down the barrel of relentless discomfort and isolation for no more than one minute with the crowd. She hoped in vain that it would put an end to his perpetual pleas to join a tour. Sixty seconds a night in a two hour set on a dual year tour was a ludicrously anemic bone to toss, one that only a madman would accept, but she underestimated his desperation. 

Nihil snatched up the offer with zeal, shaking on it with the gusto of a lotto winner accepting an oversized check. He’d campaigned for years to get back in the saddle only to witness his chances dwindle with every new album cycle. Copia suspected that part of Nihil’s terms for bestowing him his blessing was contingent upon tagging along on tour.

Tonight the Papa was uncharacteristically still, not a trace of his usual youthful, joyous energy in sight. He plucked the instrument from his shoulder and held it up to his face, whispering to it, himself, or someone unseen before placing a kiss to the mouthpiece and patting it like the head of a loyal dog.

Copia couldn’t bear to watch any longer. When it dawned on him what he was actually witnessing his innocent observation suddenly felt invasive. It was all too intimate and familiar. He backed fully through the curtain feeling like he’d been sucker punched. 

Clearing the threshold to his dressing room the Cardinal locked the door and rested his head against it. On any other night he would have energetically skipped down the hall, eager to reach his room and wiggle into the now infamous white suit, but not any longer.

He spotted one of the water bottles Swiss used as a projectile less than an hour before and scooped it off the floor. Cracking the seal and tossing the cap aside, he flipped it to the ceiling, gulping down half the bottle in one go. He slammed it on the dressing room counter and sunk into the chair, resting his forehead on the cool surface and closing his eyes. 

Conscious that he only had four minutes to change before his next entrance he allowed himself a moment to process what he’d seen. The pulsing of _Miasma_ through the overhead speakers contrasted clumsily with the bleak hopelessness saturating the emotional pit to which Nihil just unwittingly cast him. 

For years the Cardinal put his best foot forward at the ministry. He fought tooth and nail, bending backward and often cheapening himself to get where he was. Thankfully by some infernal grace he had Imperator on his side. He learned not to question why she seemed to take up camp in his corner. Sister pushed him, sometimes harshly, but he would be the first to admit that he wouldn’t be where he was today without the challenges she laid at his feet and drove him to conquer. Despite what felt like the majority of the clergy labelling him an ass-kissing people pleaser, when the opportunity for him to front the band blindsided them, _he_ saw it as the fruit of years of labor and sacrifice. 

Seeing as his lineage automatically disqualified him from Papahood there was nowhere left for him to advance within the church. He had plateaued. Cardinal was a prestigious position, one he was duly proud of achieving at an age most would consider still young. Copia had grand, romantic ideas about all the good he’d do with it, but after so long his routine duties began to feel more stagnate than impactful. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more to offer, so much more. He nurtured a seed of hope that one day he’d get a chance to prove it, a rebellious little weed growing through cracks in the concrete.

 _A Pale Tour Named Death_ would go down as his crowning achievement. He may not have won them a Grammy, but the band drew record numbers under his leadership and he himself had personally blossomed in ways he never thought possible this late in life. 

They could gossip and whisper now, call him names behind his back and doubt him. Prior to the tour their contempt might have cut him to the core, but now he accepted that his worth was far greater than their slings and arrows could penetrate. One of the most rewarding aspects of being given this platform was the opportunity to lift up others as well and he resolved early on to pay it forward. 

To Copia it was a privilege and a responsibility. One of the foundations of their faith was that every single person no matter their past sins, personal history, gender, orientation, race, or status was not only welcome but _valued_. He knew better than most that not everyone at the ministry was the best representative of those principles. He felt a personal calling to make sure no one at his rituals ever felt unworthy of love and acceptance like he’d been falsely led to believe about himself in darker days.

One of the first things he did as front man was pen a brief speech speaking directly to the most vulnerable and lonely among them. 

_Perhaps it relies too heavily on metaphor_ , he worried, _what with stomach larvae. Is the cut hand and stitches comparison cliché?_ The fact that it fell in the middle of their now famous cover of _If you Have Ghosts_ may have been hitting the nail a little too on the head. Still he believed in the message enough to present it to Sister Imperator for approval.

She sat behind her boxy, oversized desk and read to herself, remaining silent long thereafter. Copia recalled shifting uncomfortably in the seat across her, holding his breath as she stared at the paper with pursed lips. He mentally rehearsed his counter-argument for every possible objection she might have as she read. Her approval meant a great deal to him, but he was prepared to challenge her for the first time should she find fault with it. Finally she looked up from the sheet, a rare warmth in her eyes.

“You’re a good boy Cardinal,” she said unexpectedly.

“Oh? Thank you, that’s er…very kind sister. Yes, thank you.” 

Something about her use of the word _boy_ reduced him to one; he blushed and looked away, toying with the tassels at the bottom of his fascia. Her praise caught him off guard. Not that she necessarily withheld it when it was well earned, but it was normally given in response to ministry work, not in reference to a person’s character. “Does that mean―”

“Yes Cardinal, you may. You need to place your own stamp on the _Ghost_ project as it is. The third tried bless him, but I think it’s very important that we distinguish you from the Emeritus family. Perhaps this is exactly what a ritual under Cardinal Copia needs. And I agree that this is an important reminder for us all.” She held out the proposal, forcing him to stand and reach over the desk to retrieve it. She held fast to the page a moment after he took it, drawing his eyes to hers. “We’re never really alone.”

There were some growing pains. The first time he delivered the speech he directed it just above eye level afraid that if he met another pair of eyes his emotions would get the better of him. It was gentle Rain ghoul (an empath) who noticed this and reminded the Cardinal that the very emotions he took such pains to restrain only lent truth to his message. 

At the following ritual Copia dropped his eye line, immediately noticing a woman so affected by his words that she openly wept. They locked eyes and she stilled, stunned to be seen. He felt his inner broken thing recognize her inner broken thing and reach out to it. We all seek connection. Instead of disengaging and shielding his heart from her potentially infectious sadness, he lowered his defenses. Much to his surprise there wasn’t a flood there waiting to sweep him away but a fire; fire he could work with. 

He held her gaze and poured every bit of conviction he had into his message. _Things change._ Before its conclusion he saw little embers flicker to life behind her eyes. It was a call and response, an exchange of a kind wherein he passed a little spark of his own into her. Once the ritual ended and she left the auditorium he could only hope that she found the will within her to fan those sparks into a blaze.

It had been a life altering two years. The soul crushing reality that in a few fleeting hours it would all end brought tears to his eyes. He struggled for weeks to come to terms with it all and was able to keep the worst at bay, that was up until a few moments ago when he noticed Papa Nihil backstage.

Copia realized that he was looking at a physical manifestation of his own inner turmoil. Despite the frustration brought on by all the resistance and denial, he felt an unprecedented sense of unity with his Papa now. Years of questions suddenly had answers. 

Who in their right mind bore the brunt of tour life for one measly minute onstage? Watching Nihil repeatedly sink to begging the ministry for permission to go back on the road year after year embarrassed the Cardinal on his behalf. Where was his pride? Or was the old man so skeptical of Copia’s ability to manage the project that he had to come along and keep an eye on him personally. 

Now faced with the prospect of never again being allowed to perform; of briefly tasting some kind of glory only to have it ripped away; stripped of the purpose he’d found stoking fires in the bellies of every soul otherwise smothered by the world’s merciless animal nature, he finally understood: he would do the same. He would bribe them. He would beg them on hands and knees if necessary. He would do anything to make this last as long as he was capable and longer still.

That was precisely why he couldn’t stand to look at Nihil any longer. What he mistook for a lack of energy was cruelly misguided. He was witnessing a man’s realization that it was the end of an era. Nihil’s own flame, kindled for so long through sheer tenacity and stubbornness was being snuffed out and he no longer had the strength to fan it back to life. Copia recognized the hopeless resignation in Nihil’s defeated posture because he too felt it pressing heavy on his shoulders. 

Papa Nihil only reached the finish line just before him. In a few short hours the Cardinal would find himself in the same unenviable position: one where with as much dignity and poise as he could muster, he too must say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎂I settled on May 4th for Cardi's birthday because it was his debut performance. March 3rd is Tobias Forge’s birthday.
> 
> *Both this chapter and the following are lighter on dialogue, heavier on action and character building/reflection. Things lighten up and even get a little spicy in the next installment.
> 
> ❤️Thank you for your comments on the first chapter! They’re very kind, encouraging, and let me know I’m on the right track!


	3. Devil On Your Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cardinal’s thoughts take a lighter turn on his trip down memory lane, landing on his attractive predecessor and their first meeting. His musings end in him filling out his infamous white suit a little more snug for its final turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mildly NSFW.

_“That’s four minutes to Copia’s next entrance. Four minutes to the Cardinal’s next entrance please.”_

Copia jumped. Thoughts of Nihil had him so preoccupied that he failed to recognize the voice of the stage manager calling the cues, but their volume in his earpiece was startlingly loud. As much as he wished to draw things out and wallow in self-pity and melancholy, time was time and as such pressed on without a fuck to spare for his feelings.

He kicked off what he’d affectionately dubbed his _ruby slippers_ and approached the costume rack, peeling the leather gloves away from his fingers along the way. Tossing them on the counter he yanked at the collar of his red dress coat, breaking the seal on the snaps sewn in beneath the smaller decorative buttons. With two sharp tugs the coat flung open and slipped down his arms. 

For practical purposes functional buttons as delicate as the ones embellishing his suit jackets were deemed a recipe for disaster when it came to his numerous quick changes; to avoid any hang-ups the clever designers at the ministry settled on snaps instead. As he slid the suspenders off his shoulders Copia grinned in spite of himself, recalling how he originally suspected his predecessor may have had a hand in that decision. 

A bit of a peacock himself these days Copia couldn’t fault the youngest Emeritus for desiring an alternate, less aged uniform onstage. While the Papal robes were awe-inspiring and stirred baser feelings than religious devotion on their own merit, the seductive physicality of the raven haired Emeritus the Third would have been wasted in them. Purple may have been his color but a nimble figure like his had no business drowning unseen in a sea of fabric.

Arguing that he required freedom of movement to truly engage with the audience and wickedly rubbing his father’s own notorious rocker image in the face of the ministry council, Papa was given unprecedented permission to add a second look to his repertoire. Copia wouldn’t put it past him to have planted a seed in the costume department that easy access snaps in place of pesky buttons were a necessary feature. Never mind the fact that being easy access likely had more to do with what allegedly came _after_ the rituals. 

A chuckle slipped out as Copia recalled first seeing the previous Papa in what was ultimately coined his “dead Fred Astaire” look. He looked like, what were the young people calling it? A _snack._ And how delicious was he? They lined up drooling and slack jawed, eager to satiate themselves on him.

Copia was there the first time Papa shed his ceremonial robes and returned to the stage in his signature suit. The air was electrified. Hundreds of pairs of eyes snapped to his legs, his own included. They travelled up the length of his inseam to the junction at his thighs and just like that the church exploded with new members. 

Every single mummy thrust earned them a new devotee. The Cardinal once overheard Omega howling with laughter when another of the previous touring ghouls compared it to collecting coins in Mario. The game was a bit after Copia’s time, but apparently there was a particular sound effect associated with collecting a coin and every time Papa snapped his hips that imaginary chime signaled another soul won.

Moving his hands to the fly of his slacks Copia laughed again, this time at himself. His musings about Papa were having a physical affect. They always did. The timing was awkward but he was grateful for the distraction. Thoughts of the attractive anti-pope were always guaranteed to be more pleasant than whatever previously occupied his mind.

He never knew the man personally, but everyone knew _of_ him. The dysfunctional Emeritus family were practically Satanic church royalty and sometimes the ministry halls could be no better than a sorority house; everyone from cooks and sisters to ghouls, priests, and bishops traded gossip about their leader and his sons like stocks on Wall Street, speculating about what went on behind closed doors. 

Lucky for them there was no shortage of drama, mostly thanks to the youngest. Like Don Juan DeMarco, Papa Nihil was a well known womanizer. None of the three boys shared a mother, in fact none of the mothers were even present as far as anyone knew. The ministry was their playground. Everyone else was just visiting.

The Cardinal didn’t keep up with the gossip. As he prepared for his transfer to the Swedish compound a young sister tried and failed to draw a parallel to help him understand what to expect.

“Have you ever seen an episode of _The Kardashians_?” she inquired. The reference went entirely over his head. When he admitted that he didn’t know what a Kardashian was she looked at him like he had two heads, making him feel ancient.

“Well…it’s a shit-show,” she summarized succinctly.

The _Ghost_ project was in the early stages of being reimagined then, with the eldest Emeritus brother Celso as lead. When Copia arrived _Ghost_ mania was sweeping through the ministry. At first he actively avoided getting caught up in the hype. Same as everything else in his life he took his new position as personal aid to their spiritual leader very seriously. In order to make a good impression his focus must be on work and work alone.

Life in Sweden was difficult to adjust to. Things were much more quiet and straightforward back home in his little Italian parish and his frenzied new work schedule left little time for making friends. On a particularly difficult afternoon when he was feeling stressed and homesick he abandoned his work for the practice rooms, needing to blow off some steam. It was early on a Tuesday afternoon and unlikely anyone would disturb him.

When he arrived he was disappointed to hear music echoing through the otherwise deserted wing. He was about to turn around and come back later when it abruptly halted.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Copia hesitated, positive he recognized that voice. After a moment of incoherent mumbling the music began again. Curiosity piqued, he crept toward the room, ineffably drawn to an emerging harmony that became clearer the closer he came.

He tip-toed to the door and cautiously leaned around the frame, confirming his suspicion as to the source of the music. The youngest Emeritus brother Alessandro leaned over an acoustic guitar. A bishop then, the red buttons of his caped black habit were halfway undone, white undershirt not quite covering the top of his chest hair, scarlet fascia draped over the back of his chair. He huddled over the instrument with one leg tucked under him, dark hair covering closed eyes, fingers dancing fluidly over the strings as he swayed in time.

He began to hum along, an unfamiliar, seductive melody. The Cardinal watched and listened, unintentionally holding his breath for several measures. He knew he was in the wrong for eavesdropping but was transfixed. The music was beautiful; the voice was beautiful; the man was beautiful. Bright sunlight shone through amber stained-glass, surrounding the bishop, encasing him in an ambient glow. He seemed totally absorbed by the music. Copia gingerly leaned further into the room, trying to pick up on a few soft lyrics he couldn’t quite hear from the safety of the hall. He flinched when the music suddenly ceased again.

“ _Fuck me_ —what is it? What’s the damn lyric Alessandro?”

Copia dashed back behind the doorframe and out of sight, barely avoiding detection as the Bishop leaned over to a chair next to him, furiously scribbling in a notepad on the seat. He plucked out a few more notes before stopping, exhaling in frustration.

“Come in,” he called a few seconds later.

Copia cringed; not so stealthy after all. Straightening his cassock and adjusting his biretta he cleared his throat and revealed himself, doing his damnedest to mask his guilt and appear casual. He nodded in greeting.

“Hello. Sorry to interrupt Bishop,” he apologized, nervously clenching his thumbs for comfort. “I was just in the uh, neighborhood…passing by that is, when I heard you playing and—”

“Tut-tut...be honest.” Emeritus winced as he untucked his leg from under him, knee cracking loudly as he stretched it back out. “You weren’t just passing by. You’ve been standing there for a while.”

Copia internally grimaced. He was certain he’d been well hidden. His puzzled face prompted further explanation from the Bishop.

“Your body takes up space. Sound travels yes? Change the space, change the acoustics, the music sounds different. Don’t be sorry. It was shit anyway. Don’t be shy. Come in. Contrary to what you may have heard I don’t bite without consent.” Emeritus tossed a chewed up pencil behind his ear in the notebook and flipped the cover shut, dropping it on the floor next to him. When his hand came back up he held a half drunk beer. He took a swig from the bottle and kicked the vacant chair away for Copia to take.

“It was _not_ shit,” Copia countered, unexpectedly defensive. The preposterous claim that the music that took his breath away was anything less than excellent was offensive. “It was,”—his mind cycled through a series of adjectives; haunting; gorgeous; soothing—“nice.” 

_Nice? Nice Raffaele?_ he thought, mentally face-palming. _It was better than nice. Come on!_

“If you say so.” Emeritus shrugged, gesturing again to the empty seat. 

Not wanting to appear unfriendly Copia relented. Realizing they would be knee to knee without a bit more room he repositioned the chair, awkwardly sliding it back a few feet. Both of them winced as the legs scraped over the wooden floor, producing a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech.

“So...so sorry,” he murmured again, dropping into the chair embarrassed.

What a pair they made. The Bishop slouched languidly in his seat, disheveled and content with a beer in his hand and a guitar in his lap. Back stiff as a board the Cardinal appeared meticulously groomed and well kept in his perfectly pressed vestments, but uncomfortable in his own skin.

“Would you like…?” Emeritus raised his beer, indicating to an ice filled cooler on the floor. Clearly he planned on being there for a while; an empty glass bottle already lay dispatched beneath his chair.

“No, no…no thank you.” Copia declined.

“You don’t drink?” inquired the Bishop, sipping from the bottle.

“No, I uh…I do,” answered Copia. “I’m not much of a beer man.”

Emeritus nodded and made no effort to further the conversation. He tucked his hair behind his ear and openly studied the Cardinal with mismatched eyes. An occasional clicking sounded as he fidgeted with the guitar pick in his mouth, tossing it around with his tongue. Copia couldn’t bear the quiet scrutiny.

“What eh…what was it?” he asked, desperate to fill the uneasy silence. “The song? I didn’t recognize it.”

“It doesn’t have a title yet,” Emeritus answered aloof. The pick flashed in and out of view through his parted lips, drawing the Cardinal’s gaze.

“Oh, you wrote it then?” Copia perked up, even more impressed by the talented bishop. “It’s an original composition?”

“It is.”

“I liked it very much. I don’t mean to pry, but did I hear lyrics? What is it about if you don’t mind my asking?” He was genuinely interested. He toyed with the idea of writing music for as long as he could remember but lacked the confidence to commit.

“Sex.” responded the Bishop bluntly.

“…oh.” Not the answer Copia expected. He leaned back and swallowed, eyes involuntarily darting back to the guitar pick, mind wandering to thoughts of the dexterous tongue swirling it about. His skin baked inside his thick wool cassock, face and neck flushing red, matching them in vibrancy.

“Or orgasm. I don’t know…too early to say. The lyrics are coming slow, but the build, the actual music feels a bit like sex to me at the moment,” Emeritus continued off-the-cuff, casual as though he were commenting on the weather. He was either unaware or indifferent to the effect the subject was having on his conversational companion. “Do you enjoy sex Cardinal?”

“Pardon?” Copia gulped.

By then the Cardinal knew of the attractive Bishop’s reputation as ministry Lothario. Like the infamous lover Casanova rumors swirled concerning the scope of the youngest Emeritus’ sexual conquests. Popular opinion seemed to be that he’d bedded half the clergy at minimum. Having been on the receiving end of some damaging albeit less erotic rumors himself, Copia tried not to give credence to hear-say, but seated across from the man now he began to understand where it all stemmed from.

“Sex—do you enjoy it?” Emeritus repeated without a hint of shame. Neither his voice nor expression broadcasted a lewd or inappropriate motive; his manner was friendly and open. He asked as though it were a perfectly natural question to pose to a new acquaintance, as normal as _what’s your favorite color?_

The Cardinal crossed and uncrossed his legs, chuckling nervously at the audacity. What an ice breaker. “I uh…well, I…a-as much as the next man—”

“Aha—but you see not all men do.” The Bishop leaned in, clearly interested in pursuing the topic. Copia countered to maintain a professional distance. “I would never ask a question I wouldn’t answer myself. I’ll admit that I enjoy sex. I share that in the strictest confidence, of course.” He winked, flashing the Cardinal a mega-watt smile.

Copia fumbled for a response. After a delay Emeritus came to his senses, realizing that the Cardinal wasn’t playing along. He immediately restored the distance between them, outwardly regretful for not noticing that his line of questioning generated unease.

“Well shit, I—whoops…sorry. I’ve got a mouth on me. And I was doing so good today…fuck… _damn it!_ Sorry, sorry. I don’t have the tourettes thing. I just cuss a lot…sometimes…a lot of the time. I’m not drunk.”—the Bishop laughed, expression self-admonishing—“I didn’t mean anything by it. I forget we haven’t been introduced, not formally anyway. I _vaguely_ know who you are. You’re Imperator’s golden boy—Nihil’s latest gofer. What’s your name?”

Copia bristled at the degrading titles. _Golden boy? Gofer?_ They totally undercut his significance and hard work.

“Cardinal Raffaele Copia,” he responded, raising himself a little taller in his seat. Despite outranking the Bishop he was reluctant to chastise him for his overly familiar tone, choosing instead to hold his tongue over worry that any misstep with an Emeritus would anger Papa Nihil.

“ _Raffaele_ …the best turtle! Cheers.” Emeritus drained the second bottle.

“The best…what?” Copia was entirely lost.

“I require no introduction I presume?” Emeritus continued, leaving the Cardinal in the dark over the _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle_ reference until he could Google _“Best Turtle Raffaele”_ later that day.

“I know who you are.” Copia couldn’t tell if the man intended to be as arrogant or condescending as he came off. His gut told him no, it was likely the booze; there was a disconnect between the Bishop’s friendly bearing and the seemingly un-filtered things that came out of his mouth.

“Alright, don’t beat about the bush Cardinal. What’s the damage? Lay it on me. I can take it.”

Copia frowned, slipping deeper into confusion trying to follow the other man’s train of thought. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Damage?”

“I’m in trouble,” said the Bishop confidently.

“In trouble? Er…no.”

“Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “My father didn’t send you here to punish me?”

“Have you done something worth punishing?” prompted Copia, immediately regretting the inquiry when Emeritus grinned at him as mischievously as the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Copia blushed, pulse quickening as the concept of punishing the cocky Bishop took root in his brain.

“Ooo, if you don’t already know I’m not about to tell you.” Emeritus’ eyes sparkled as he bent over, placing the empty beer bottle next to the one he’d already finished. He reached toward the cooler only to think better of it, re-tucking his hair and folding his hands in his lap instead. Knowing that Copia wasn’t there on his father’s behalf softened his temperament.

“If you haven’t come to drag me back to work then to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I uh…” Copia’s eyes travelled around the room, searching for an alternate excuse to needing an escape from his own workload. The son of his superior was hardly an appropriate shoulder to cry on.

“You play?” asked the Bishop, elevated tone either hopeful or pleasantly surprised, Copia couldn’t tell. He didn’t realize he’d been looking in the general direction of a stash of instruments in the corner of the room. 

“The cello and piano,” Copia replied. Whilst true, he actually came there to dance. He chose to keep that to himself. The concept wasn’t usually met with a positive response. 

“You must play for me!” the Bishop sprung forward in his chair. The possibility of hearing the Cardinal play jolted him with an enthusiasm that in turn filled the Cardinal with paralyzing dread. He played purely for pleasure.

“Oh no. I—”

“No ‘oh no.’ Oh yes! Go on. Please indulge me, please. I insist. I’d love to hear you play.” His suave, easygoing air flew out the window, replaced by genuine excitement over the promise of music. His pleading hands landed on Copia’s knees, instantly propelling him from his seat.

“I should be g-going now. I’ve got to gofer,”—go for, damn—“go for something…things to attend to…other—a meeting!” Copia checked his wristwatch; he wasn’t wearing a wristwatch; double damn.

“Sounds like serious things.” Emeritus’ face fell. “Another time then?” he added hopefully.

“Yes—perhaps,” said Copia over his shoulder, already inching toward the door. He couldn’t look back.

“Don’t think I’ll forget!” the Bishop called after him.

The Cardinal would never play for him. While they saw one another in passing, neither spoke about their introduction that day. Despite his crudeness and scattered, manic energy Copia never really got over his initial image of the bewildering Emeritus the Third. Was he unpredictable and inappropriate? Yes. Did that make him any less desirable? After about the third of many rounds of self-pleasure with the sexy Bishop in mind, Copia admitted no. Emeritus’ influence obviously colored Copia’s own turn as front man.

Months prior to his involvement with _Ghost_ Imperator fed him footage for study. In hindsight he felt foolish for not realizing what that meant, but despite the band being a powerful vehicle for the church he never thought he had a future in it beyond administrative work. For reasons now made clear Imperator took every opportunity to involve him in the mechanics of the band. Sure, he had his fantasies about being on the world stage but had no reason to believe there was any kind of secret agenda to place him there. When he was suddenly appointed the new front man he dove headfirst into research mode. 

A classic overachiever, he had a habit of slipping into a one track mind and obsessing over the task at hand. He spent days cooped up in his chambers at the ministry, pouring over hundreds of recordings from previous rituals. As an enthusiastic fan himself he thought he knew the shtick but it wasn’t until he honed in with a critical eye and picked the performances apart that he began to appreciate the individual nuances of the Papas before him; though _no one_ drew him in like his immediate predecessor.

The Cardinal appreciated the genius of the Third’s effortless, deliberate choreography. Every flick of the wrist, suggestive curl of his fingers, tuck of his dark hair, and sway of his hips had a purpose: to entice, entreat, enrapture. Copia’s early attempts to emulate the same sultry moves in the privacy of his bedroom resulted in him face first on the bed confessing darkly into his pillow that he felt like an absolute fool. 

In a puff of smoke the little angel on his shoulder appeared and jeered cruelly into his ear; A.) you’re far too old, B.) you’re terribly ugly and C.) worst of all, Papa will laugh at you. In a textbook example of “be careful what you wish for” the Cardinal _thought_ he wanted to be on the world stage but the pressure of living up to Papa was overwhelming. His sense of inadequacy was only exacerbated by Nihil’s near constant reminders that not being part of the bloodline excluded him from one day taking up the mantle himself. Surely the people wanted a Papa, not plain old Cardinal Copia.

He spent an unhealthy amount of time in front of the mirror, picking apart his appearance next to Papa, grieving the loss of those carefree days before his promotion when he actually thought highly of himself. He wasn’t bad-looking. He was good humored, had good taste, a pleasant singing voice, and a decent body for his age. After falling into the trap of comparison however Copia was rarely satisfied with his own reflection. He just couldn’t see the masses craving him the way they craved Papa.

Lucky for Copia the pint-sized devil on his other shoulder was a feisty little gremlin. He’d burst from a spark of hellfire trying to impale the little angel on his tiny glowing pitchfork (or his cock which was inexplicably out on display regularly). The devil told the angel to fuck off and assured the Cardinal that he was actually a painfully desirable sex god in disguise and given the chance Papa would gag and deprave himself for a taste of him.

Now, Copia knew exactly what dark part of his psyche conjured the depressing little shoulder angel. He was at a complete loss though as to what part of his subconscious spewed forth the other, lewd character. Sometimes he thought he saw flashes of the same impish behavior from their lead guitarist. However vulgar and reliably inappropriate, the little devil did have a way of lifting his spirits (and occasionally planting scenarios in his mind that lifted other parts of his anatomy). So he pressed on, practicing obsessively until Papa’s evocative moves became second nature to him.

Sliding the zipper down, Copia groaned at the release of pressure. Using the clothing rack for support he slid the pants over his bare ass and yanked his legs out. Clad in nothing but socks and an undershirt he draped his red suit over a chair, doing his best to ignore the depressing bulletin that flashed in his mind’s eye reminding him that he’d worn it onstage for the last time. 

He traced a finger over the Grucifix patch on the coat only to snap his finger back when he realized he was falling into same trap as Nihil. There was still a set to finish and the incredible crowd that gathered in Mexico City deserved his best. Copia was suddenly hell-bent on not allowing his emotions to consume him. After the tour wrapped he would have his things thoroughly dry cleaned and preserved to be enjoyed in private from then on. There was no reason to get sentimental.

_“Three minutes to Copia’s next entrance. Three minutes.”_

Only a minute had passed since his mind began to wander. Time and memory had a funny relationship. A burst of cold air from an overhead vent shocked him back to the present. Like Papa but far more unpleasant, the chill in his empty dressing room was having an effect on his anatomy. Copia pushed the other garments down the rack and reached for his white slacks. Notwithstanding his position as Cardinal and his association with the color red, this white variation was so much more than just a fan favorite. 

He perched himself on the lip of the dressing room counter, shivering as the frigid surface bit into his ass cheeks and slipped his feet into the skinny pant legs one at a time. He smiled, recalling how often he bit the dust in his early attempts to put them on quickly at the start of the tour. By now he had it down to a science. He knew exactly what muscles and sinews to relax as they traveled upward, molding to his legs like a paler second skin. 

He laughed more heartily recalling how he’d originally, foolishly insisted on attempting to wear undergarments. Explaining to the tailors and Satan help him, Imperator, why he required them was an ordeal he would rather forget. Without going into detail he tried to delicately express that _his_ was a situation that required support. To his annoyance the tailors brushed him off, assuring him with a devilish smirk that they understood him well but not to worry because his “situation” as he called it would be well taken care of. Who was that modest man? Where did he go?

As he slid the fabric past his knees he stood up and said a silent prayer. It had been several months since their last ritual and he’d been lazy and gluttonous over the long break. The Cardinal was a bonafide hedonist with a pointed weakness for rich food and drink. Unfortunately the evidence of his frequent lapse in willpower now clung to his belly, ass, and thighs. 

While no one expected him to turn into a gym rat leading up to the tour it was strongly recommended that he adopt a light exercise routine in order to build up his stamina and breath-support. While he had zero interest in building himself a new body, Copia wasn’t naive enough to believe that his leisurely strolls through the ministry gardens were enough to prepare him to be the face of the entire organization. He may have fallen out of practice but he was still a trained dancer. 

He prescribed himself a strict regime of daily yoga and cardio to gain back the ease of movement robbed of him by hours of sitting stiff at a desk, bent over paperwork. Sticking to the routine wasn’t the difficult part. He had a dancer’s discipline after all and weeks after enacting his new lifestyle, muscle memory returned to him and his body took to the music with the effortlessness of a much younger man.

No, the difficult part was the pasta. Copia loved pasta and swore it was never served at the ministry with such frequency as it was until _after_ he swore it off. Ironically it is a universal truth that nothing is more tempting and desirable than what you can’t have. The Cardinal would deny himself much needed sleep to sneak into one of the smaller kitchens after the hallways fell dark and quiet to huddle over a generous helping of spaghetti. 

Mindful not to dirty anything unnecessarily, he leaned against the counter with his plate at chin level, eyes darting around the room as if he were accountable to anyone but himself. Theirs was a lurid affair. The noises he made were criminal. His body wobbled in involuntary appreciation for each forkful that passed his lips and the sight of him licking the stubborn remnants of tomato sauce from the empty plate was frankly lewd and debased. He would never do so in front of another human being, but in these circumstances he always felt better if there was no evidence of the crime. Despite there being ghouls for such tasks he washed and re-stocked everything he touched before waddling back to his chambers, happily rubbing his full belly like an expectant mother and justifying his indulgence with the time-tested “everything in moderation.”

His understanding of the word moderation must’ve warped over the break and he was paying for it now. Taking care not to rip his pants, he slowly tugged them up his ample thighs. Done in reverse his careful dressing would’ve been irresistibly sexy if not for the deep lines of concentration etched in his brow. 

Following a brief moment of panic when he thought he heard the seams give way, the top of the pants cleared his ass and rested tight and low on his hips. Now came the tricky part. No matter how many times he did it the Cardinal could never shake the fear of what havoc the zipper might wreak on his unprotected member if it got caught, especially given the state thinking of Papa put him in.

Copia bit his cheek and tried to calm his body’s reaction to taking himself in his hand. Unfortunately for him there was a similar set up across the room with a line of mirrors against the opposite wall for him to catch sight of himself in. He locked eyes with his own reflection and gave himself a few rough tugs to which he swelled in response. He always had this kind of reaction to the sight of himself in these pants. 

The tailors were correct, he didn’t need any extra support. If anything he needed a bit more room. There was no relief from the incessant chaffing of the fabric and if he was of a particular _mood_ there was no hiding it. The first time he saw his reflection he could visibly track his own arousal. The fiery little devil jerked off right there on his shoulder and for once the little angel opposite was stunned into silence.

Sadly time pressed on leaving him no time to chase self-satisfaction. Miasma was picking up speed. With a sigh Copia tucked himself in and gently, with great care, zipped himself up. He took a brush to his hair, touched up his mustache, and quickly glided some chap stick over his lower lip before bending over with a groan to buckle his shoes (resulting in another scare when again the seams of his trousers audibly alerted him that they were reaching their limit). The two minute call came just as he crowned himself with the fedora. 

Snatching up his cane, he struck a flamboyant pose in front of a full length mirror. Something about this particular outfit just _begged_ him to ham it up. He used to feel foolish for it but those reservations were dashed when the audiences lost their minds. He struck another pose and his breath hitched. No matter how gracefully he tried to adjust himself the pants applied exquisite pressure to his manhood. For the hell of it Copia brushed his thumb up and down the developing bulge, exciting himself further. 

“If this is to be our last time pet, let’s make it one to remember, eh?”

The notion that he might have a visible erection used to paint him as crimson as his cassock. Now he reveled in turning as many ritual goers as possible an even deeper shade of red, so much so that he created an entire bit specifically to draw attention to his crotch, thighs, and ass. Reserved though he may be in his personal life, onstage the Cardinal fed off their lust and desire for him. The crowds so generously offered him a nightly fix and then some. 

Pasta or no, the longer the tour went on the more in shape he became. Months of traipsing the length of the stage, scaling the stairs over and over, kneeling, wobbling, and thrusting resulted in a pair of sculpted thighs and a rotund bottom that he was proud to say became his trademark. He could cast his eyes in any direction and meet scores of greedy, dark, blown out pupils. 

Sure Emeritus the Third had his _Monstrance Clock_ “come together” speech, but did he ever promise to push the entire audience outside and fuck every single person in a seedy, public parking lot (that particular scenario compliments of the little shoulder devil). In millennial terms Papa III may have been a snack, but Copia was _thicc_. Did Papa tickle any taints? Wobble any asses? Copia bit his bottom lip, erection twitching. Of course he had. That inevitable train of thought led to a mental picture he was very keen to explore but the one minute call forced him to put it on a mental backburner.

He raised an eyebrow when he realized how obvious his arousal had become. This was going be the most blatant he’d ever been. There was a dot of moisture forming, doing what moisture was kin to do to white fabric. Any more and it really would start becoming transparent. He considered trying to quickly rub it dry but any attempt to agitate the fabric would only excite his situation. 

Hopefully Imperator wasn’t paying too close attention, but then who was he kidding? Nothing slipped past that woman and it was the final show of the tour. She was out there somewhere in addition to several other high ranking clergy members. At that moment Copia decided he didn’t really care. After all, a healthy dose of lust never hurt their cause. 

The first explosive note of Nihil’s saxophone solo rang out and above it, the roar of the crowd. Copia smiled broadly and shot an enthusiastic thumbs-up to the speaker above him. It sounded like the old man was giving it his all. After one final appraisal of his reflection he tugged the wrinkles out of his blazer and with a flourish of his cane flung open the door. As he strut back toward the stage he invoked an old friend.

“Burn bright little shoulder devil. Let’s burn it down, you and I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ArchangeloLucifer originated the name of Celso for Papa Emeritus I. It was used with permission.
> 
> Thank you for your continued feedback and support! It is a great motivator. You all know what's coming next...our baby is about to have himself a spicy, spicy ascension. Stay tuned!


	4. Ave Ad Papam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely unaware that his life is about to change forever, Copia mounts his tricycle as Cardinal for the very last time. Following the collapse of Papa Nihil he is cast adrift, confused, and left totally at the mercy of the sisters of sin. An incident within the tight-knit group results in what would become the steamiest ascension in ministry history, if anyone outside the circle found out that is. Can you keep a secret?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW: Here we go!

The Cardinal pushed his body back through the velvet curtain separating the bright fluorescent lit hall from the dark shroud backstage. Using his walking stick as a white cane to suss out any potential trip hazards he couldn’t see while his eyes adjusted to the low light he continued onward stage left. There seemed to be a significant rise in the number of bodies milling about backstage, many of whom Copia didn’t recognize as members of their regular crew. 

While they usually brought in local labor to build and strike the set before and after each ritual, those workers were corralled elsewhere during the actual performance and brought in afterward. Shortening his gate to buy himself enough time to count the multitude of new faces, Copia sensed his earlier paranoia returning. He felt their eyes boring into the back of his head as he passed by, saw the animated way they pointed and whispered into each other’s ears. 

Normally this would have nagged him with worry over why anyone unaffiliated with the tour was back there or whether or not they had the necessary clearance in the first place; uber fans regularly tried to slip past security for a shot at getting up close and personal with their favorite band; religious protesters sometimes, however rarely tried to disrupt things; press was occasionally allowed but the Cardinal was always forewarned of their presence.

Those would have been his primary concerns if he weren’t also sporting a healthy erection. It was one thing to flaunt it in front of a crowd from a distance but given the close quarters backstage he suspected his appearance might be at the root of all the conspiratorial glances and whispers. 

A sister of sin peeked out from behind a barrier to his left. He plucked the fedora from his head and cleverly placed it over his crotch, tilting his head to acknowledge her. The sister bit her lip and shot him a coy wink before a hand emerged from behind the barrier and yanked her back out of view. 

Copia could see a row of feet lined up beneath it but his cue was fast approaching and he didn’t have time to wonder who they belonged to or why the sister he saw sported ceremonial face paint. He brushed it off as having something to do with the after party. He searched for Orla, wanting to steer clear of her. Apart from feeling guilty for being short with her earlier, he didn’t want her to see him this way. It was difficult for him to think of her as a grown woman.

Jesus (real name Kevin) was waiting in the wings with the Cardinal’s tricycle lined up and ready for one last glorious ride. One of the longest running crew members, his blasphemous nickname stuck after another stagehand pointed out that with his long brown hair and beard he resembled a certain biblical messiah. Copia tossed him his cane and flipped the tails of his coat up to mount the trike. He tested the pedals, rolling himself a few feet back for more room to launch forward.

“Well, it’s been an honor Cardinal,” said Jesus, giving his shoulder a squeeze of solidarity.

“Yes. Mine too my friend,” said Copia, reaching up to pat his hand appreciatively. He hadn’t considered that he might never see the crew again. He changed the subject to circumvent the negative emotions brought on by the idea. “Hey, I hear you’re catering the after party too, eh?”

Jesus answered with a confused look.

“You mean they didn’t tell you? The ministry council cut some corners with the budget for the festivities, so they only picked up about five loaves of bread and two fishes for the entire crew. They figure you just do your magic little multiplication trick and _ta-daaa_ , fish and bread for everyone! Oh...and the cheapskates wouldn’t spring for any alcohol but there’s a ton of bottled water in the greenroom so see what you can do with that shit too, huh? If you’re taking requests I have a weakness for a good, dry classic cabernet sauvignon.” 

With a wink and laugh at his own cleverness Copia re-donned the fedora and tipped the brim to Jesus before squeezing the tricycle handlebars and launching himself forward. Distracted by the conversation, he failed to notice that Papa Nihil’s saxophone solo cut out early and that the screams that followed were more distress than exaltation.

The spotlight took a moment to find him which was normal and there was a pause before the sound of squeaking wheels cued up which was also normal. What was _not_ normal was that only about fifty percent of the crowd paid the Cardinal any attention at all. He flung his feet out comically in pursuit of a laugh before bringing the tricycle to a halt. The bit usually called for a few attempts to sync up with the sound effect, but he was genuinely puzzled and disappointed by the crowd’s lack of interest. This opportunity for audience interaction ranked high on his list of favorite moments in the show and this was his last chance to do it. Not to mention he was already a little pumped to show off the state of his pants. 

He dismounted the trike and smoothed out his coat before thrusting a fist in the air, urging them for a bigger reaction. When they failed to deliver he silenced the small percentage that _had_ participated and prepped for another go at getting everyone behind him. Twisting his torso for a more exaggerated gesture, a flurry of movement at the top of the stairs caught his attention. The rest of the stage was supposed to be in black out. 

His stomach tightened and he felt the sudden familiar prickle of anxiety on the back of his neck. The din of the arena was earsplitting but for him things went chillingly quiet. Forgetting the crowd, his feet compelled him up, up the stairs to investigate why things had gone off script.

He halted after a few steps, blood turned ice-cold by the scene that greeted him. Papa Nihil was unconscious on the ground surrounded by a small army of stage crew and medics. They fussed over him, taking his pulse, checking for breath, desperately searching for any hopeful signs of life. One of them noticed Copia and at his entreaty gestured sadly that Nihil was gone. 

The floor dropped out from beneath the Cardinal, leaving him dizzy, without a firm grasp on reality. The roar of the crowd became unrecognizable, morphing into a heavy static white noise that pressed in hard on his temples. This was it. The moment he’d been dreading. He thought he had more time.

“Turn around Cardinal.”

 _This is a nightmare_ , he thought. _I’m hearing voices._

“ _Turn around_ I said. Face the crowd.”

Copia spun awkwardly. He may have been in shock but years of being at Sister Imperator’s constant beck and call conditioned him to be quick and obedient at the sound of her voice. At a loss for what to do he stood there dumbfounded, waiting for another sliver of direction from the phantom Imperator.

“Now spread your arms out wide and look up into the light,” her voice commanded through his earpiece.

No sooner did he do as he was told than a spotlight shone down from above, blinding him with its intensity. Blinking away the spots flashing before his eyes, he was struck with a plausible theory to explain away all this madness: he was already dead and he just didn’t know it yet. He wheeled his trike right off the side of the stage and broke his neck. He was wrong, the ministry did murder the Emeritus brothers after all and now it was his turn. This was the infamous bright white light people generally told you to run away from. If he were being honest he was expecting something a bit more infernal looking and for it to be shining up at him rather than down. The bagpipes were an interesting touch.

“Walk down the stairs, and for pity’s sake _take…your...time_. We don’t need any clumsy accidents right now.”

A rich statement coming from her, the woman who literally drove her vehicle off an actual cliff. Copia stiffly descended the staircase taking one deliberate, mechanical step at a time. His adrenaline reserves burst, pumping him with so much energy that his heart did virtual somersaults in his rib-cage. Caught somewhere between fight-or-flight mode, his ability to function independently without guidance or direction froze leaving him in a trance like state. He could only rely on the voice of Imperator to lead him to safety now.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, his heart rate spiked as skeletal figures emerged from the darkness to flank him from both sides.

 _Lucifer help me,_ he thought.

“The sisters will take it from here,” Imperator explained. “They’ll be your guide. Do exactly as they say. I mean it. There is _no_ time to spare here. No questions.”

But all he had were questions as the dark nuns began to close in around him.

“And one more thing…”

Copia swallowed hard as the final sister of sin hit her mark, closing the circle and cutting off his view of the crowd beyond.

“Congratulations… _Papa_.”

Before he could register her final comment the lights cut out, plunging Copia and the nuns onstage into near total darkness save for a vibrant blue glow. He cried out as multiple sets of forceful hands grabbed him roughly and drug him down. His ass hit the floor with a hard _THUD_. 

Six sisters entered the circle; the others closed formation and passed a long piece of dense black fabric around to cover the gaps at their feet. No one could see in _or_ out. He was completely cut off from the rest of the room.

Copia was burning with questions but kept his mouth shut as instructed by Imperator. He shrank back when a sister in the inner circle hiked up her vestments and flung a leg over his body, sinking down to straddle his lap. In his first independent action since everything dissolved into chaos his hand shot to her thigh, pressing up on her so he could hurriedly change the angle of his hips to avoid brushing his erection against her ass. She sunk down a moment later, looking him in the eye and relaying the following information in a light Mexican accent.

“Keep your eyes closed and please hold as still as possible your Dark Excellency. It is very important that you do these things until our task is complete,” she said, pulling the fedora off his head and passing it back to another sister who then flung it out of the circle. In her right hand she brandished a sponge, in her left, a small pallet and brush.

Copia squeezed his eyes shut faithfully but immediately failed at her second request when two sisters kneeling at his feet began yanking on his shoes. He pitched backward with a yelp, landing on his elbows to scattered giggling. Someone behind him helped him back into an upright seated position.

“Come to sister,” she whispered huskily, sidling up close until his hips were nestled snug between her thick thighs. Bracing him with her ample bosoms pressed into his back, she snaked her arms round his waist and leaned forward, purring into his ear. “There now…that won’t happen again.”

Copia flinched, gripping her knees when something cold and wet glided across his forehead. Sisters kneeling on either side of his torso peeled his hands away and squeezed them reassuringly. They removed his gloves and chucked them out of the circle. As the wet trail slid down his nose, his eyes fluttered but remained shut. For the first time he tried to speak. 

“What are y―” A finger to the lips silenced him. He unconsciously pushed against the breasts behind him to counterbalance having his right shoe yanked free. “My make-up…you’ll ruin my―”

“ _Shhh_!”

He snapped his mouth shut. Fingers began tugging at the top of his coat. He felt the gentle suction of the snaps before the seals broke and tried as best he could to keep his head still for the sister working on his face. Once the snaps were dealt with, two pairs of hands began to peel the coat back. 

“H-here, one moment―let me just…uh,” he whispered, rolling his shoulders gently, doing what he could to carefully assist them in pulling his arms back out through the fitted sleeves all while the brush on his face traced an indiscernible pattern.

“What a gentlemen,” said a low voice to his left.

“Muchas gracias _Papi_ ,” echoed another in his right ear, close enough that the speaker’s lips ghosted over his earlobe. She snapped his suspender playfully. The sister propping him up from behind laughed against his neck, the heat of her exhalation puffing over his goose bumped flesh. Copia shuddered, becoming keenly aware of the how potentially erotic his current position actually was.

Six beautiful women worked in tandem, hands traversing up and down his body, disrobing him while several others watched. To what end? He wasn’t sure he still cared. Beyond them thousands of people in the house screamed his name, desperate for his attention. His breath came out in shallow gusts as his body zeroed in on the sensation of full breasts pushing against his back, of supple thighs squeezing his hips between them, and the firm digging of fingers into his neck, holding him still as the brush glided almost sensually over his face.

His mental control center changed its perspective and he was loath to stop it. Copia was no longer in fight-or-flight mode. He had clicked over to fight-or- _fuck_ mode. The impish shoulder devil remained unseen but Copia felt the little gremlin’s influence working its magic on his mind.

A sharp _THUNK_ from beyond the circle disrupted his dirty thought process. Desperate for even a tiny sense of what was going on he squinted his pale eye open, picture coming into focus just in time to witness one of the sisters at his feet crane back her arm, about to launch a shoe out of the circle. His mouth fell open, realizing with horror that the initial thud he heard could only have been the impact of the first shoe. 

They were _white patent leather_ for Satan’s sake! All tour long he did his best to keep them in pristine condition and even _despite_ his best efforts he managed to wear out four pairs in two years. Months ago, after learning that this was to be his final replacement pair he became obsessively meticulous about not scuffing them. These were the ones he hoped to preserve forever! Buying a brand new pair that never walked the stage defeated the purpose.

He found his voice and flung out an arm out to halt her. “No, no, no, _please_ don’t do tha―”

“ _Eyes shut! Mouth closed!_ ”

He clapped his eyes shut, preferring not to see it happen, whimpering when he heard the loud _BANG_ of the second shoe crashing back down to the stage floor. He had no time to mourn his likely ruined shoes because there were fingers at the fly of his trousers. 

Sirens blared to life in his head. Like a drunk shocked into sudden sobriety by imminent danger, his stomach dropped and his body went rigid. He became hyper aware of everything. The poor unsuspecting sisters had no idea what was waiting under that zipper. Every single filthy thought flew out of his mind, replaced by a singular, laser-like focus. He could _not_ allow himself to be exposed!

“ _NO!_ ”

His head shot back and his eyes bulged open wide. The sister in his lap cursed in surprise. His violent reaction threw her brush off course resulting in a stray black streak on his cheek. She didn’t have an opportunity to fix it before Copia seized her hips, tilting them an effort to displace her enough to both reach behind her to stop the hands currently pulling at his zipper and also keep her from stirring his crotch as he did. Since his mind had gone down the gutter the situation in his pants had only grown more _dire_.

The sister behind him released his waist to force his biceps back down but he broke free, clawing for the tops of his trousers and vomiting protestations, “No! No! S-Stop! Halt! Uh, Nada―no that’s not―I not―I _necessito_ the uh, p-pantalones! Leave them!”

“You _must_ hold sti―” A sister tried to silence him, but he rapidly spoke over her.

“But you don’t un-understand! N-no comprend _OH NO_ ―” His voice cracked in panic. They succeeded in getting the zipper down. Not that he could see; he knew because he felt the familiar release of pressure on his groin. A pang of pleasure punctuated the moment but he still felt contained so the battle was lost, but not the war. 

“Belial these things are even tighter than they look,” exclaimed a breathless sister from further down.

As a unit, two sisters began tugging on one pant leg each. Grunting, they yanked and pulled but were unable to clear the top of the trousers over his ample behind. While he worked on freeing his arms from the nuns above Copia flexed every muscle in his thighs until they were painful and rock hard to stall any progress below. Once his arms were freed he slouched down and stretched his fingers until at last he was able to snatch the very top of his trousers, effectively pinning the waist of the sister straddling him in the process. 

A riotous tug of war ensued; the two sisters below struggling to remove the pants and Copia not only fighting like a madman to keep them on, but fending off the sisters above who tried loosening his grip and restraining his arms. The rest of the sisters in the outer circle broke into a violent fit of laughter.

“I’ve never had this much trouble getting a man out of his pants in my life!” howled the sister pulling on his left leg, sending another shock through the other women. 

“That ass won’t―won’t _quit_!” added the sister yanking on the right, teeth gritting from the exertion.

“Tag me in anytime,” heckled someone from the outer circle. This encouraged the other previously uninvolved women to join in, emboldened by the fact that the crowd was so loud no one else could hear them.

“No me!”

“My time has come!”

“Don’t be shy!”

"Is it my birthday?"

"Hashtag blessed!"

“I volunteer as tribute!”

“Me! Lucifer, please me!”

“Strength in numbers ladies!”

Copia was happy _they_ were enjoying themselves; he was _really_ thrilled about it because _he_ was on the verge of having a heart attack. The whole predicament left him covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His clammy fingers clutched the fabric in a vice like grip. 

Back and forth they tugged, only ever clearing an inch or two before their opponent jerked it back, cancelling out any progress. Copia involuntarily groaned, a fifty percent mix of distress and arousal. Despite the ridiculous circumstances behind the nature of its execution, he was essentially being jerked off from the constant push and pull of the fabric grinding back-and-forth, back-and-forth over his cock. 

A particularly forceful drag felt so delicious that his eyes rolled back into his head. He clenched his jaw, feeling lightheaded from all the blood in his body rushing south and the mental Olympics of fighting (in vain) to force himself not to enjoy this. Enough was enough. His dignity was at stake.

“This is m-mutiny! I am―I―I― _Aye yai yai_ ―” he choked on another groan. The fabric slid up. “I am y-your Cardinal! And I dem-demand that―”

 _Down._ “―you―”

 _Up._ “―you let―”

 _Down._ “―l-let go―”

 _Up._ “―NOW!”

In a joint effort the sisters below snatched a handful of fabric from above his knees for more leverage, then with all their body weight, heaved back as one. The sides seams, already stretched so thin even _without_ the added stress, couldn’t take anymore. They gave way with a loud _RRRIIIPPP!_

Copia shot a hand out to stop the tear, compromising his grip in the process. This was his undoing. With one final mighty tug the sisters ripped the infamous white pants to pieces.

A loud gasp travelled around the circle, none so shrill as what came out of the sister in his lap as his massive erection sprung free and slapped her against the thigh. To his shame Copia moaned obscenely. To his further astonishment several of the sisters surrounding him voiced the same reaction.

“ _Satanas Mio!_ ” One of the outer nuns made the inverted sign of the cross and bit her Grucifix.

“ _Hallellujah!_ ” praised another dramatically, taking fistfuls of her habit and bunching it up against her groin.

Copia could only stare in horrified silence into the shocked eyes of the sister in his lap.

“I…am…SO DEEPLY sorry sister….” He croaked after a pause.

Her waist now free of the arms that pinned her she lifted herself up higher on her knees, putting some distance between her thighs and his member. He bit his cheek to stifle a whimper as it slipped off her skin and bobbed in the air. She cleared her throat and addressed them all like a General rallying troops.

“Quickly now! We’re nearly finished!”

“He is too by the looks of it.” What would have drawn a hearty laugh before now aroused lusty sighs from the others. Copia grimaced.

Poking his chest with the handle of her brush the sister in his lap forced him to acknowledge her. “Ojos…cerrados… _ahora_! Y cállate!”

He didn’t need a translator to understand her meaning. He happily slid his eyes shut, relieved to be in the dark, safe from the possibility of catching one of their eyes. His embarrassment was almost debilitating but it couldn’t be undone so he resigned himself to whatever happened next.

While his face was being painted his arms were coaxed through new sleeves and his legs into new trousers. The sisters worked on efficient as ever, but there was a change in the way they went about it after the “incident”. It was clear to all, things were no longer just business as usual. 

The temperature within their little circle rose by a few degrees leaving them all with sticky palms and clothes that clung oppressively to heated skin. Hands lingered. The sisters below kneaded his calves, then his knees, then his thighs as they sensuously pulled the fabric of his new trousers up over the skin. Copia grunted when they left them just short of his ass and moved onto his shoes, leaving him exposed.

As they redressed him Copia worked on accepting that this was all out of his control. Everything that happened in the last minute, humiliating though it was, was just happenstance really; an honest-to-goodness accident. Besides, it’s not as though he preyed on a group of unsuspecting women on the street like a flasher in a trench coat. They were doing their job and he was just along for the ride. Was it a cruel joke that he happened to be in the state he was in at the time? Yes, but it was also perfectly natural and no cause for shame. He was starting to feel a little bit better about it when a dainty hand wrapped around his cock.

Paint was currently being applied to his lips so he swallowed his cry of surprise. Fingers tentatively circled the swollen head, resting there for a moment, waiting for a sign that they were unwelcome before squeezing tight and sliding down his length. Copia groaned loudly. If he startled anyone with his reaction they gave him no indication. A body pressed down between his legs, spreading his thighs further apart. A second hand, one belonging to different sister than the one now stroking him, cupped his balls, kneading him with the perfect amount of pressure.

The other women in the outer circle bit their tongues, watching with droopy eyed jealousy as their sisters teased their superior. A few cast worried glances at his face. They had already pushed him so far over the pants situation. He’d given them a direct order to stop and they delighted in defying it. In their defense they had orders too, from Imperator, and her wrath struck far more fear into their hearts than Copia’s displeasure. The overly saturated blue light made it difficult to read his expression but it didn’t seem like he was of a mind to stop what was being done to him. He rather seemed to enjoy it.

Once his new coat was snapped up entirely the sisters by his torso moved on to gloves. 

“Oh… _oh_ _yesss_ …” He squeezed the hand holding his left as a wave of pleasure shot up through his body. She squeezed his back before tugging the leather casing down over it. Despite being a little delirious from the hand currently pumping over his shaft, Copia had the wherewithal to considerately hold up his right hand to receive the other glove. 

Instead the sister there pulled it down, angling his palm up. Distracted by a tug on his balls, he was ignorant as to why until his fingers were pressed up to meet a slick wet heat. At the same time a different kind of slick wet heat enveloped his cock.

“ _F-Fuck_ , mmm―” Copia hissed, back arching against the breasts keeping him upright. The owner of those breasts moved his collar aside and licked his neck from shoulder junction to earlobe, sucking on the pulse point throbbing at the side of his neck.

“Oh, for Satan’s sake.” The sister applying his face-paint couldn’t catch a break. She was nearly finished but her sisters’ actions weren’t making her job any easier. Imperator would give her hell if she didn’t do a clean job. Behind her the woman not currently sucking on Copia’s cock laughed.

“Hey, we’re all done here. We can’t move on until you finish anyway. Besides, I think he likes it.”

“Do you? Like it?” whispered the sister latched to his neck.

“Mmmhmmm,” Copia whined.

While he was being expertly serviced below he bent his right middle finger at the behest of the sister kneeling over his palm. Passing his finger over her folds he pressed up and into her, earning a grateful moan. She rolled her hips, a second more powerful expression of appreciation sounding when he added a second finger and began pumping in time with the bobbing of the mouth on his cock.

Copia was lost in sensation. Once his left glove was secured the sister there slipped her hand under his blazer and pinched a nipple through his undershirt. He felt a persistent bumping against his tailbone, realizing with excitement that the sister behind him was touching herself as she nipped at his earlobe. His body was swimming with pleasure to the point where he forgot where he was, that is until Imperator’s voice exploded in his earpiece.

“ _What the heaven_ is going on out there? Tell them to speed it up! You’re running out of music.”

“Speed it― _ungh_ ―SPEED IT UP!” Copia yelled obediently. “I mean, ImperatOhhh _F-FUCK_ _ME_!” The tongue circling the head of his cock slid down, followed by plump lips. The sister fellating him sucked him off with double the enthusiasm and speed. She must have mistaken his request. His hips bucked up and the sister impaled on his fingers keened as his fingers twitched inside her.

The muscles in his lower abdomen began to clench and shudder. He was oh so close to coming undone. It was a twist of cruel fate what happened next.

“DONE!”

The sister riding his fingers immediately removed them, wiping her juices away before shoving them into his other glove. The sister opposite her slid the hand out from under his jacket and pulled it down tight. Copia whimpered as his cock was abandoned. The one who had been supporting him trailed one last lick behind his earlobe before standing up and hauling him with her. Thankfully she continued to support him as his knees were weak from being worked over.

He nearly cried as the new trousers were heaved over his ass and his swollen, hyper sensitive erection was shoved back inside and zipped up.

“Hold still.”

The sister holding him up took a step back, allowing another with a large, billowy robe to approach. It took three of them to reach up and carefully slip it back down over his head. Yet another followed behind her, resting an ornate cape on his shoulders and reaching around to join a substantially bedazzled clasp over his heart. He sneezed, nose tickled by the rosy smelling setting spray misted on his face.

No more than four minutes had passed since Copia launched himself onstage, but they had probably been the most tumultuous four minutes of the Cardinal’s entire life. Nothing made sense. He’d fallen down the rabbit hole. The leader of their church was allegedly no more, he momentarily thought himself both dead and insane (those theories had yet to be disproved), he fought with _and_ fucked with a superfluity of randy nuns and all to the sound of fucking bagpipes!

And yet he was still hopelessly confused as to what was transpiring all that time, oblivious up to the very moment he felt the weight of the heavy mitre settle on his head. It struck him then like an unholy revelation. He didn’t need to see it to know what it was. His eyes traveled around the circle, drinking in the reaction of the stunned nuns to their handiwork. The sisters, so recklessly daring just moments ago, gazed at him now with a tinge of awe and fear; a look that made his cock pulse.

“Habemus Papam.” They reverently whispered together before raising their palms to their chests and beginning to disperse, revealing their creation to the audience.

The lights came up. A cacophony of screams nearly knocked Copia back like a tidal wave. It came at him like a wall. He had never seen a crowd react this way. It was pure chaos; they shrieked, they cried, they hugged one another and yanked their own hair. He saw a flash of blue as he opened his arms to them. He had no idea what he looked like but they certainly approved. 

The aroma of frankincense alerted him to the sister approaching from his right. She brought with her a smoking bronze, spiked thurible and lust filled eyes. Copia accepted both and turned back to the crowd. The booming bassline at the top of _Con Clavi Con Dio_ filled the room and the lights shifted to a bright hellish red.

Approaching the mic, Copia realized that the crowd had organized their mindless screams into the chanting of a single word and he growled deep in his throat when he recognized what it was.

“ _PAPA! PAPA! PAPA! PAPA!_ ”

The shred of electric guitars and thunderous drumming joined the chorus of cries and just as the lights began to flash and strobe, Papa Emeritus IV finally came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that I hope none of you ever watch footage of the Cardinal's ascension to Papa without thinking of this scenario ever again! What comes next you ask? Maybe our newly anointed Papa isn't very pleased with the sisters for leaving him high and dry. Didn't Swiss say that Dew found their dressing room earlier? Mwahahaha.
> 
> And to those who are here for Papa III...fret not. He's on the horizon and I can't wait to include him!


End file.
